


Compromising Positions

by hystericalwomannovelist



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Political AU, Romance, angst-lite :], occasionally NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:46:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 85,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalwomannovelist/pseuds/hystericalwomannovelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Diane and Kurt run against each other for Governor of Illinois.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress! Attempting to update nearly daily.
> 
> Some mature/explicit scenes. Not rating the entire work explicit but will put a note on each chapter that fits that rating.
> 
> Dedicated to Kathleen and Rachel, who are equally responsible for the conception of this universe and probably behind all of the better ideas in it. xo
> 
> You'll have to excuse all of the ways I have dumbed down and misunderstood the political process here. Try not to ask too many factual questions as you go. I am trusting that is not really what you are here for anyhow. :]
> 
> Conspicuous lack of Alicia and Will here -- let us just imagine they had better timing at Georgetown, and are off having their own adventures.
> 
> OK! Enjoy! :)

“Rewind it, I need to see it one more time!” a college student wearing a Lockhart 2014 tee-shirt calls out.

“He’s just a senile old man, it’s not nice to laugh!” retorts another, similarly clad, nevertheless picking up the remote and rewinding the tape to play it again.

Diane enters the central work area of her campaign headquarters, arms crossed, surveying the room with a small but pleased smile. The room is abuzz with energy, idealistic young people and cynical career campaign people all milling about, excited, united in their belief _in her_. It is a giddy, awe-inspiring thing that she could never become jaded about, no matter how many races she wins or loses. She likes most to see them celebrate every victory, even the crass and accidental ones, even in a campaign that has been almost absurdly full of them.

And now, it seems, Howard Lyman has handed them yet another.

Cary catches her eye and grins. “Did you see it, Diane?” 

She sighs in mock weariness. “I’d ask what made him stick his foot in his mouth today, but he never actually does realize what he’s said, does he?”

“He doesn’t,” Cary laughs. “He called a supporter ‘little guy’ and proceeded to talk to him for five minutes as if he were eight years old. Tom Brooks is _thirty_ -eight years old, and a dwarf.”

“And presumably no longer a supporter,” she notes wryly.

“What do you think, Eli, another point and a half our way, two?” Cary yells across the room. A few cheers arise in response from the fired-up volunteers still huddled around the television.

“I don’t think there are any more points to move!” Eli is as gleeful as anyone, the paranoid, grumbling campaign manager always suddenly young at heart when something goes their way. “You’re running away with this, Diane. You don’t even need me.”

“But I _like_ you, Eli,” she winks at him.

“You don’t win campaigns by surrounding yourself with people you like. Unless your opponent is Howard Lyman, in which case you can probably have farm animals advise you on strategy.”

“Oh, look, here’s Farmer Bob again,” Cary points at the TV. They have evidently lost interest in the tape – or at least want to see paid commentators make jokes about it – and have turned back to the news.

“Who?” Diane squints at the screen, seeing some flannel-wearing cowboy type in what seems to be an ordinary political ad. 

“This gun-toting yokel,” Eli scoffs. “He keeps buying five-minute spots on daytime to get his crazy tea party baloney out to the kooks and morons among us. They eat it up. People can’t get enough conspiracy theories, aimless fury and–”

“Guys? Hey, guys, you wanna hear this,” one of the volunteers yells, turning up the volume.

On the screen, the man stops his leisurely walk in the woods and turns to face the camera. Diane rolls her eyes.

_“This election is too important. The future of our state is too important. The issues we face now could determine what life is going to look like for your family and your community for decades to come. That’s why I believe you deserve a real choice in this election, a real alternative to Diane Lockhart. And that’s why I am asking you to consider me for your next Governor of the great state of Illinois.”_

“NORA!!!” Eli screams, throwing his notebook uselessly and sending two staffers scrambling. “Get me someone from Channel 2. NOW!”

Nora pokes her head in, nods although confused, and disappears around a corner just as quickly.

Diane shares her confusion, finding herself more amused by the low-budget production and her apparent new rival’s presentation skills in the ad. He comes off as more of a caricature than a serious challenger – he looks like the Marlboro Man. She laughs to herself as this thought crosses her mind, but attempts to silence it when she notices Eli’s glare. She tries to be reasonable. “Eli, this might be a surprise, but I hardly expect some right-wing nutjob to take votes away from me.”

Eli still looks stricken, and deathly serious. “You can’t count on anything, Diane. People love this guy.”

Nora comes back into the room, unperturbed by Eli’s crazed behavior. “I’ve got Jim on line one.”

Eli stalks out, muttering something about damage control.

Diane shrugs, allowing herself to laugh at last, gauging Cary’s reaction to this news. “What was his name? Does he even know to end his ads with his name?”

“Kurt McVeigh,” Cary says, more somberly than she had expected. “And people know his name, Diane.”

She feels as if everyone has gone mad – this political novice, entering a race in August, cannot possibly pose any kind of threat to her. Even the college students have quieted down, talking in hushed tones, stealing worried glances back at her. 

“Well, I’ve never heard of him,” she says dismissively.

“Look, we’ll talk strategy, but don’t take that line with the press. He’s going to paint you as a disconnected big-city politician who shuttles between Chicago and Springfield. He’s been airing these ads for weeks and I’m telling you, people like what he’s saying.”

“Then he’s the latest flash-in-the-pan political celebrity.” She throws up her arms in disbelief, turning at last to Nora for some form of back-up. “What do you think of him?”

“I don’t agree with most of what he says, but I do think he’s sort of cute,” Nora offers.

“All right, well, that’s progress, at least,” Diane shakes her head, a wry smile on her face as she walks out of the room. She’s over twenty points up in the polls with three months to go in an election against a Republican party that isn’t even trying. She doesn’t see how the addition of one more lunatic changes the electoral math one bit. Suddenly no one is saying anything that makes a bit of sense.

But in a strange, rugged sort of way, she does have to acknowledge that he is at least… _cute_.

At the mere thought of the ridiculous word, she can feel her face contort into a goofy sort of grin that she struggles to master. Good-looking. Attractive. But absolute dead meat.


	2. Chapter 2

Diane retreats to her office and closes the door. Let everyone get their fill of talking about it. Let Eli do his “damage control” until he starts to calm down. She has been through all of this enough times before to know that they need to get it out of their system before they can get back to work and back on course. She would rather stand clear until they do, still seeing no cause for alarm – or for any reaction, particularly. From what she has gathered about him, Kurt McVeigh is nothing to her.

She sighs and sits down at her desk, sifting through the hundreds of emails that have come in since she last checked. She clicks through them, barely scanning one before moving on to the next, comprehending nothing. Despite herself, her mind keeps wandering back to her strange new everyman opponent. She is not threatened, but she has to admit to herself she is… interested. 

She bites her lip, glancing up as if to make sure she isn’t about to be caught doing something illicit. Hovering over the icon for several moments, she then decisively clicks onto the internet, navigates to ChumHum, and searches “Kurt McVeigh videos.”

She winces as she selects the first result, clearly another in a string of his folksy, probably self-produced political ads. In each, he is in some new cozy, natural setting – walking through the woods, sitting beside a lake, or in front of a fire, speaking in his pointed, brusque manner about impending economic Armageddon, shutting down failing schools, slimming the Federal government to its original four departments.

“How far back do you want to take us?” she mutters under her breath, but she continues to click from one video to another, both disgusted and fascinated. 

She can see the appeal in a way, and the simplistic lure in the message that government is the problem, and not possibly a means of solutions. The cowboy persona is an act, she’s sure of it, one she has full confidence the public will see right through under the harsher light of a campaign. But nevertheless there is something genuine and guileless about him, and she can easily see how it could charm anyone.

As she watches, through her horror, she finds herself wondering when he will mention her, what strange ideas and outright lies he must be propagating about the evil establishment candidate, but is disappointed to find nothing. Apparently he has not acknowledged her outright until today, when he seemingly launched a campaign as much to oppose her as to stand for anything himself.

She hovers over the search bar again, tempted but stopping herself from typing “Kurt McVeigh Diane Lockhart” just to see what stray mention he may ever have made. It feels juvenile, petty, and as she considers the phrase a little too close to a schoolgirl scribbling on book covers for her comfort. She feels herself blushing, absurdly.

“Um, Ms Lockhart?” her personal assistant Gretchen knocks and tentatively opens her door halfway. 

Diane slams down her laptop screen, looking up sharply. 

“I’m sorry, but there’s a call for you.”

_Then why not simply transfer it in?_ she thinks, her brief flare of embarrassment turning quickly into annoyance. 

“It’s, um, Kurt McVeigh.”

Diane feels the blood drain from her face, an unaccountable flutter of nerves coursing through her. She controls her outward reaction, instead narrowing her eyes as she considers the young woman before her, and whether or not she will keep her job through the week. They’re still out there gossipping, Diane knows; they sent Gretchen in here to see how she would react. 

“Put him through,” she says evenly. “And close the door.”

Diane lets it ring several times before answering. Finally she stands, one hand on her hip, and picks up the receiver. “Diane Lockhart.”

“Ms Lockhart,” comes his now-familiar crisp voice, a strange kind of lilt to it as it pronounces her name. “This is Kurt McVeigh. I wanted to extend a goodwill call to you.”

Diane rolls her eyes – does he have any idea how things are done? “I’m sorry, Kurt –?” She trails off as if she cannot place the name. Let him know how insignificant he is to her.

“Kurt McVeigh – I would have expected your crack political team to stay more on top of the news,” he says, throwing it back at her, his voice never sounding any less bright. “Well, you’ll be hearing more from me now that I’m running for governor.”

“Oh, ha!” she lets out a sharp laugh, as if this is the first she has heard of it, and she considers it to be completely absurd.

He goes on, unfazed. “I think the people deserve a real choice, and I think we both know Howard Lyman isn’t it.”

She turns and sits on the edge of her desk, relaxing, finding herself wanting to needle him. “So you are running as, what, an Independent?”

“Yes. I agree with tea party positions on many issues, but I’m really here to offer my service to the people of Illinois.”

“Oh my goodness,” she breathes, the condescension palpable in her voice. “You’re like something out of Tocqueville.”

He ignores her interjection again, adding, “I know you feel the same way about it.”

For a moment she struggles to remember to what he is referring, and the softness of his voice distracts her. When she does make the connection, she finds that it disarms her. With less hostility but still a careful reserve, she agrees, “Yes, well, that’s the only reason to run for office.”

“We may not agree on anything else, Ms Lockhart, but I wanted to call to tell you I respect you for that.” He clears his throat abruptly. “That’s it.”

“Oh, um, all right,” she sputters, baffled by him.

“I look forward to a good fight. I’ll talk to you soon,” he says, and before she can respond, he hangs up.

She places the phone back in the cradle slowly, sinking back into her chair, confusion gradually giving way to amusement. She buries her face in one hand, laughing to herself. Now that she has spoken to him, she isn’t sure how much of the cowboy persona is a carefully constructed image, but she finds she believes everything he said, strange as it was for him to call her and say it. He is her polar opposite, personally, politically, in every possible way, but he has forged a relationship on the one thing they have in common. And for a moment, he left her speechless.

Perhaps he is more dangerous than she gave him credit for.


	3. Chapter 3

Diane lets herself into her apartment, clicking on the local news before she sets down her bag or slips out of her heels. She collapses into the sofa, exhausted, and a moment later Justice leaps into her lap, welcoming her home with kisses. When they're not out making campaign stops, this has become their nightly routine. 

“You like it when we're on the road, don't you, huh? Then at least there's someone who has the energy to walk you.” Diane gives the dog a guilty look, but Justice just yips happily and tries to lick her face again. She is her most forgiving, loyal companion.

She hasn't been sitting for more than two minutes before her cell phone rings. Wearily, she reaches out for it and looks at the screen, wondering why she even bothered. Of course it's Eli. She contemplates chucking it across the room, but she knows it wouldn't stop him from calling back until she picks up.

“What is it, Eli?”

“McVeigh is now the least of our worries, and I'm still very worried,” Eli says hurriedly, and she is sure he hasn't stopped running around since the announcement earlier in the day.

“Eli, you're only happy when you're worrying,” she sighs.

“Yeah, well this is real.”

“I'm watching the news now. I'm not seeing any catastrophic breaking news.”

“You're not going to see this on the nightly news. It's insider stuff, but it's not small stuff. Howard Lyman is under new management.”

Diane perks up a bit. Until now, the Republican party had invested very little in the race, and she understood Lyman had hired his best friend to manage his campaign. The two famously conducted their strategy sessions over nine holes of golf. “Who?”

“Canning and Lee,” he says simply, waiting for it to have its intended effect.

It does. “Why would he go with them? How can he afford it?”

“My guess is this is more a power move than a payday move. They get someone like Howard Lyman into the executive mansion, they can pull all the strings.”

Diane mulls this over for a moment, then makes a dismissive gesture. “Eli, they may be good, and they may play dirty, but not even they can come from 22 points behind.”

“Diane, I need you to face reality with me. I can't have you sleepwalking through the final stretch.”

“You said yourself we were running away with it.”

“That was before all of this happened – and frankly I'm not sure these two surprises aren't related.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the whole Kurt McVeigh thing smells of Louis Canning. I bet they're behind his running.”

“Eli, you're paranoid, it doesn't make sense. If he's going to draw from anyone's base it's Lyman's. No one who's going to vote for me would consider switching to a tea partyer.”

“You're underestimating how soft some of your support is, Diane. A good chunk of your 22 points is the 'anyone but Lyman' vote. They move to McVeigh, and suddenly you've got an interesting race.”

Diane starts to protest, but finds she can't quite. What leaps to mind is her impression of Kurt McVeigh as an honest, straightforward man – if anything he is those things to a fault, but she feels certain he is those things. But she cannot make that argument to Eli.

“Diane, we need to regroup tomorrow. I'm going to put you on a press blitz, we need to step up our campaigning in rural districts. You need to seem just as down-to-earth as McVeigh. Let Lyman look like the outsider. He's going to be making a lot fewer gaffes with Canning and Lee as his mouthpiece. But they're only going to make him look like more of a political machine guy. You need to go the other way.”

“All right,” she says, too tired to protest further. He is probably right, anyhow – about the response to the situation, if not the reasons behind it.

“And we need to stay on-message. We can't afford to be lazy and overconfident now. No distractions.”

“All right.”

“Diane, I need to know that you're taking this seriously.”

“I am, Eli. I wasn't before, but I am. I'm just tired.”

“No time to be tired,” Eli barks, then softens. “Get a good night's sleep. We start a new campaign tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Eli.”

Diane sighs, noting the time as she sets her phone down. Too late for a good night's sleep, but she's used to that. She's ready – a good fight more fun than running away with it. But she refuses to buy into his paranoia. Canning and Lee's firm is known for going viciously negative, using underhanded and legally ambiguous tactics, and they win. Their entry into the race is worth taking seriously. But she simply cannot bring herself to believe McVeigh could be bought that way.

She is basing this on one phone call, she knows. She has formed this conclusion even knowing that he set out to charm her. But she credits herself with good instincts about people; it's one of the things that has made her a successful politician. He appealed to her as someone who stands steadfastly by his convictions and puts the people he would serve first. That much was sincere, she is certain.

And there he is on the local news. She turns up the volume, getting comfortable, propping her head up with one hand. She might as well get used to seeing his face regularly now. They're running an interview with him at home, what appears to be a rustic cabin in the woods – _that figures_. She laughs a little at his manner, so brusque and laconic – he'll have to work on that if he's going to make it through the debates. “Nope” and “yep” isn't going to get him very far against her. 

Justice scrambles off her lap and runs toward the television, yipping and jumping at the screen. Just the way she does when she sees one of Diane's interns that she knows gets walking duty.

“You like him, too, huh?” Diane rolls her eyes. “Apparently everyone does.”


	4. Chapter 4

Eli is quick to book Diane on the local news affiliates, first the nightly news with Carl Franklin and the morning shows the next day. He’s at her side while she waits to be called on set, rocking on his heels and typing furiously on his smartphone. 

Absentmindedly, he reminds her, “Careful what you say about McVeigh. Acknowledge him, then steer the conversation right back to the issues.”

Diane looks at him sideways in mock indignation. “Do you find that most candidates you work with forget what you tell them thirty minutes later?”

“I do, actually.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

“Good.” He pauses, then can’t help but persist. “Because he’s definitely going to ask you about McVeigh.”

“I know, Eli.”

“I have Kalinda looking into that, by the way.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Looking into what?” 

“Any possible connection between McVeigh and Canning/Lee.”

“There’s nothing there, Eli.”

“So I have Kalinda making sure there’s nothing there. You know I’m going to have him investigated; would you rather I keep it from you?”

She shakes her head, exasperated, but then softens, thinking twice about it. “No, no. I want to hear everything she finds out about him.”

“That’s more like it,” he smiles. “Oh – you’re on next.”

Diane follows the production assistant who leads her to her chair opposite Carl. She shakes his hand and exchanges pleasantries with him before the segment begins, pointedly ignoring Eli’s encouraging thumbs-up from offstage.

“Welcome back. I’m Carl Franklin and tonight I’m joined by Diane Lockhart, Democratic candidate for Governor. Welcome to the show, Ms Lockhart.”

“Thank you, I’m glad to be here.”

“Voters know you well, Ms Lockhart – older generations will remember your father, too – but you’ve more or less spent your entire career in public service. Is this what you always wanted to do?”

“Well, I was raised to value this work, and to fight for people in my community who haven’t had the same good fortune I’ve had. Certainly my father encouraged me – he told me I’d be a Senator one day when I won my first debate trophy in junior high school,” she laughs.

“Maybe the Senate is next? The Presidency?” 

“Well, you never know what life has in store, but my focus right now is on helping the people of Illinois, right here from Illinois.”

Out of the corner of her eye she catches Eli making a gesture of approval from the sidelines.

“Do you ever get tired?” Carl jokes.

Diane smiles, but answers earnestly. “Of the work, never. But of the personal attacks, the focus on petty distractions and showmanship, yes, it does get tiring. And I can see why some people get turned off by that.”

“That seems like an appropriate transition into talking about your new opponent from the right, Kurt McVeigh.”

Diane eyes him warily. “Why is that?”

“Would you say his entry into the race is a distraction, showmanship?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Diane takes a deep breath, annoyed but remembering Eli’s advice as she catches his eye. “I think he may even be a breath of fresh air, bringing the focus of this race back to key issues like gun control, public school funding–”

Carl interrupts her. “Howard Lyman has positioned himself as a traditional family values candidate, as opposed to you and McVeigh, you’re both single, have been single for a long time.”

She raises one eyebrow slightly, assumes a gently mocking tone. “Is that a question?”

“Do you think that has any bearing on the race, or the character of a candidate, or the ability of an elected official to fulfill his or her duties?”

Diane leans forward, lowering her voice, a dangerous smile coming over her face. “His or her, I like that, that was very carefully phrased, and I like that you’ve put McVeigh and I in the same boat. But I don’t think you’d ask Kurt McVeigh the same question. The truth is you look at a female candidate differently – you wonder why she’s single, why she’s prioritized her career over family. If I were married, and had children and grandchildren, you’d be asking me whether a grandmother should be running for office.”

“So–”

“No I do not believe it has any bearing. And I think it’s callous and frankly desperate of Howard Lyman to make the comparison. But I also think the people of Illinois are enlightened enough to see many life paths as being equally valid for a woman. And I’m running for governor in part to ensure that those paths are equally achievable for every woman.”

Offstage, Eli goes from practically wringing his hands to throwing them in the air in triumph at that line.

Carl clears his throat, changing the subject. “So what do you make of Kurt McVeigh?”

“What do I make of him?” she challenges him.

“Yes, your impressions of him since he entered the race.”

Diane struggles to adopt a more measured tone. “I think we agree on absolutely nothing. I think when we start to talk about the issues voters will have a very clear choice.”

“And the man himself?”

“I don’t know him as a man.” 

“But your impressions.”

“Look, I think he’s an honest man, I think he has that kind of straightshooter, plainspoken manner that appeals to a lot of people. If you’re trying to get me to make a blind character attack on one of my opponents, I have no interest in that kind of politics. Do you want to ask me about any of his positions?”

There are no pleasantries when Diane unclips her microphone and stalks off the set.

“Diane–” Eli is at her heels as she leaves the soundstage. 

She waves him away, staying a step or two ahead. “I know, Eli, I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to hear it.”

“I know, I was too combative, too argumentative – well you know what, Carl Franklin asks idiotic questions and I’m not here to make him look good.”

“You’re here to be _likable_ ,” he reminds her gently.

She stops in her tracks, confronting him, now that she’s worked up. “You know, Eli, ‘likable’ means different things for a man and a woman, too. McVeigh can be likable with his folksy charm, and he still comes out and says whatever he thinks, no matter how vile and harmful his ideas are. When you tell me to be more likable, you mean softer.”

“That’s another thing,” Eli goes on, undeterred. “You shouldn’t have said that about McVeigh.”

“What did I say?”

“You called him a bumpkin.”

“No, I didn’t, I–” She strains to remember. “I said he was plainspoken.”

“It’s condescending. You can’t do that.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I know, people like him.”

“And it sounds like you’re making fun of rural voters. That’s the soundbyte. It sounds petty and classist.”

“This is exactly what I hate about politics, you know?” she says, but smiles at him wryly, resuming walking.

He falls into step beside her, half of his attention back on his smartphone. “I know. If it makes you feel any better, I’m blacklisting Carl Franklin. He’s a jerk.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You remember that pancake breakfast in Cortland we turned down last month?” Eli had brought up with deliberate nonchalance after a staff meeting a few days prior.

Diane winced. “Yes?”

“You’re doing it now.”

“Why?”

“Because now McVeigh is doing it.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to have me chasing him all over the state to every gun rally and county fair he attends.”

“God, no, that would look like weakness,” Eli dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “No, soon he’ll be chasing you.”

So Diane finds herself in the cafeteria of Cortland Elementary School, pouring syrup with one hand and awkwardly shaking hands with the other. In what feels like a lifetime of campaigning she has never quite acclimated to this sort of event, and now Eli plans to double her appearances. Talking to people about their lives and concerns never fails to energize her, no matter the setting, but when it involves some sort of participation she feels how out of place she is. She is keenly aware, too, of the contrast her tailored jacquard blazer and skirt makes in a sea of denim and camo, and she shudders to think Eli will soon have her dressing the part when he sees how this plays on the evening news.

The organizers have set the event up as a friendly political face-off, two lines forming for tables opposite one another, signs encouraging voters to queue up for the candidate of their choice. Most people seem more interested in getting their pancakes as quickly as possible so there is no way to judge who has more support – more than a few people have come through Diane’s line with some variation of “I don’t agree with your views on abortion, ma’am, but I would like some maple syrup!” But she keeps her eyes on McVeigh’s side for whatever insight she can glean, and she does note that his line is disproportionately full of men wearing hunting caps and pretty young women.

“You have my vote, Ms Lockhart!” a middle-aged man announces as he steps up in line.

“Wonderful!” Diane turns on the charm, pouring syrup over his stack of pancakes. “Can I count on you to make a few phone calls for me?”

“Oh – absolutely,” he says, taken off guard.

“There’s a volunteer form and information on your local headquarters on your way out. Thank you for your support!”

She can’t help glancing over at McVeigh’s table in between each pour, curious to get her first glimpse at her new opponent in action. She can see that, unlike her, he is in his element at this sort of event. He may be terse and unpolished in interviews, but he is enthusiastic and at ease here, welcoming hugs from and mugging for selfies with what are clearly his fanatics and groupies. 

She notices him sneaking glances at her side, too, sizing up the length of her line and her interactions with her supporters. Feeling his eyes on her, she overdoes it, she knows it, her time-tested politician smile three times as broad, her handshakes becoming more vigorous. Eli would be proud; he just had no need to know what motivated her.

“Thank you so much for your support. Maple syrup?” she says for the hundredth time, absentmindedly pouring and flicking her eyes over to him again.

This time she catches him staring right at her, and for a moment their eyes lock. She feels herself blushing – there’s no reason for it, he was the one staring, but she is definitely blushing as he turns one of those aw-shucks smiles on her. 

“That’s enough!”

“What?” Diane, snapping out of it, turns back to the woman in front of her.

“That’s plenty of syrup, thank you.” 

Mortified, Diane realizes the woman’s pancakes are now swimming in syrup, but before she can offer to get her another plate she is walking away, shaking her head.

Diane clears her throat and focuses her attention on the next in line, a young girl in braces who appears to be about eleven or twelve. 

“I think you’re a little young to ask for your vote,” Diane laughs, “but I’ll still offer you maple syrup.”

“Yes please!” the girl raises her plate, her voice wavering a bit. She bites her lip, then adds nervously, “I wish I could vote for you! You’re my role model!”

“Oh my goodness,” Diane exclaims, touched, exchanging a smile with the woman next to her, who she assumes is the girl’s mother. 

The woman smiles back. “Tracy reads every mention of you in the paper she can find. She doesn’t care about Justin Bieber – she has pictures of you all over her bedroom!”

Diane glances over at McVeigh’s table for a brief moment again, making sure he is still keeping an interested eye on her. There is no reason this moment can’t serve two purposes.

“Do you have a camera?” Diane asks the woman. “Tracy, would you like to have your picture taken with me?”

The girl nods, looking so nervous she might faint. She walks around the table to stand next to Diane as her mother sets down her plate and fishes in her purse for her smartphone. Meanwhile Diane puts her arm around the little girl, leaning in close, mindful that her opponent can see how warm she is with her supporters, too.

“Say ‘cheese!’” the mother says as she frames the shot.

Tracy, practically shaking with excitement, jumps when Diane enthusiastically calls back “Cheese!” and loses control of her plate, letting it fall face-down against Diane’s jacket.

“Oh my god,” her mother leaps forward, grabbing a stack of napkins and trying to help. “I’m so sorry!”

Diane is dripping with maple syrup, inwardly horrified, but she keeps a smile plastered on her face. “Don’t trouble about it. We still got a nice picture, didn’t we Tracy?” she turns to the girl, who looks like she’s on the verge of crying.

“We’ll definitely be voting for you in November after all this,” her mother laughs nervously. “I am so, so sorry.”

After they have walked away, Diane turns to the volunteer next to her and asks her to take over for a minute. Pointedly _not_ looking over at McVeigh’s table now – she couldn’t bear to see him enjoying her looking so foolish – she slips out of the cafeteria in search of the nearest restroom.

She exchanges lighthearted remarks with the other women as she washes the sticky syrup off her hands and tries to get as much off her jacket as possible. It’s a mess and the water doesn’t seem to be helping much. But she is gaining the sympathy of all the women in the room, so in the end she counts the whole mishap as a net positive.

She emerges from the restroom, frowning down at the big wet splotch now very apparent on her blazer. Somehow she’ll have to get through the rest of the event this way, and hope it’s the pictures from earlier that make it into the morning paper.

“White vinegar,” a male voice startles her from a few feet behind.

She whirls around to see Kurt McVeigh himself, fixing a sideways smile on her. 

Taken aback, she manages, “Excuse me?”

“Sponge it with white vinegar when you get home,” he explains. “Should get the stain right out.”

She smiles at him slyly. “I know you’re new at this, but giving the opposition pointers isn’t customary, Mr McVeigh.”

He returns her smile, his voice softening, more playful. “Maybe I’m sabotaging you. Guess you’ll have to decide whether you can trust me.”

She looks him up and down for a long moment, as if sizing him up. Then she extends her right hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr McVeigh.”

He shakes it, but scowls. “Kurt, please.”

“I think a some degree of formality between us would be best.”

“More – customary?” he teases her.

She nods once sharply, ignoring his manner. “Yes.”

“All right, then,” he shrugs. “Ms Lockhart.” 

There is a certain edge in his voice when he says it that makes her think ‘Diane’ might be less dangerous.

Covering her discomfort, she leans in, her voice dripping with condescension. “Any more homespun hints you care to share?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll let you know,” he grins back.

She is aware suddenly that a small crowd is gathering in the hallway, watching them spar, a few people taking pictures on their phones.

“Well – we’d better get back before this becomes the headline,” she says, gesturing back and forth between them.

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” he says lightly, then with a little tilt of his head he walks back toward the cafeteria.

She watches him go, waiting a few moments before following. She still finds him absolutely baffling.

Shaking her head finally, she returns to her table. She is on autopilot for the rest of the event, spinning out the phrases and flashing the smiles that have served her well over the years. She tries to keep her eyes from flitting across the room now, but she can’t stop her mind wandering there. Why had he even followed her out? He didn’t have a reporter in tow, he didn’t seem to want a photo opportunity, or a chance to embarrass her or challenge her. He is utterly outside of her realm of experience, and she has faced political opponents of all stripes over the years. As near as she can tell, he just wanted to say hello.

As this thought crosses her mind, she can’t help but glance over. He is looking her way again, and when he realizes he has her attention he nods and flashes her a smile. They both look away quickly, now more intently focused on pancakes than is perhaps strictly necessary.


	6. Chapter 6

“It's been a week since McVeigh entered the race. How is he polling?” Diane looks around the table at her closest advisers, none of them quite able to meet her gaze.

Cary clears his throat, obviously not relishing being the messenger. “It's too early to draw any real conclusions from the numbers. He's generating excitement among one segment of the electorate which could fade away, while another segment still barely knows who he is.”

Diane raises her eyebrows. “Sounds like you're explaining away bad news.”

He sighs, reluctant to admit it. “We do see him drawing some support away from both you and Lyman. Internal polling of likely voters has you still in the lead with 52%, Lyman at 34%, and McVeigh is pulling in 14%.”

“I lost _nine_ points in one week?”

Eli raises a hand trying to calm her. “These are really soft, early numbers, Diane.”

She does the mental math, astonished. “I lost more ground to a teapartyer than Howard Lyman did.”

“Howard Lyman didn't have much ground to lose,” Cary reminds her.

“Unbelievable.”

“You still have a comfortable lead,” Eli points out.

“Don't you think he can do better than 14%?” 

Eli shrugs as if it's unknowable. “There's going to be a lot of volatility until the debates, much closer to the election. I don't want to put a lot of stock in the numbers right now.” 

Diane laughs bitterly. “That's new.” 

She fixes a long look on Eli, who only reflects a complacent smile back at her. They've been through this many times before and she knows very well that if she weren't acting so alarmed, he would be; he's always the high-strung one, except when she needs him to talk her down. In a way, she appreciates it. He knows they have drawn the same conclusions, but he isn't giving her space to rage and agonize over them, as he probably will as soon as he can be alone in a supply closet.

“Kalinda!” Eli says abruptly, eager to change the subject. “Please tell us you have something we can use.”

“Well,” she says slowly, crossing her legs and opening the folder in front of her on the table. “My investigation isn't complete, but so far, he's clean.”

“Nobody's closet is free of skeletons,” Eli says. Kalinda draws in a breath as if she's about to argue when Eli cuts her off, prompting, “Tax evasion, an unpaid parking ticket, something! Come on, isn't he _morally opposed_ to all that?”

“I'm sure he'd change the laws if he could, but he does follow them,” she insists.

Diane leans forward, addressing Kalinda and pointedly ignoring Eli. “Where does he _come_ from? What does he _do_?”

“His education is in physics and forensic science. He worked for a few years as a ballistics expert, but for the past several years he's been mostly working a series of adjunct teaching jobs to support his writing.”

She laughs lightly. “What does he write, crackpot political manifestos?”

“He has published two fairly successful books.” Kalinda shrugs, as if leaving the assessment of their worth up to her.

“So is that how he's funding his campaign?” Eli presses. “Is there anything in the money?”

“No, his financing is all above-board. He takes a modest income from his books, but more importantly they gained him a following. Supporters raised the money to get his ads on the air and encouraged him to run. He's raised enough to get a campaign started, but not enough to keep up with you and Lyman.”

“But if he gets people excited, that's another story,” Cary observes. 

“Any connection at all between him and anyone at Canning and Lee?” Eli asks.

“Not to Louis Canning and not to David Lee,” Kalinda says. “I'll keep looking for ties lower down in the ranks if you want me to.”

“Please do.” Eli sighs, grasping at straws. “I don't suppose there's any relation to Timothy McVeigh.”

“No, but I suppose some people will be turned off by the name alone.”

“Enough, Eli,” Diane says, exasperated. “He's clean.”

“All right, he's a Girl Scout,” Eli scowls, taken aback by how quick she is to defend him. “So, then, how _do_ we get him?”

“Believe it or not, our I think best bet is to go after him on the issues. None of it is hard to find, but outside of his books and his populist television spots, he has made a number of statements and supported causes that will be a lot less palatable to most voters.”

Kalinda slides the folder over to Eli and he starts skimming through it. “Good, good, we can use this. Tie him to the most extreme views of the Tea Party.”

Diane frowns as she watches Eli grow increasingly gleeful as he flips from one page to the next. “As long as we stick to the issues. I don't want to go personally negative.”

Eli looks up sharply. “You don't think _he_ would, if he had the chance?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “I don't, to be honest.”

Eli narrows his eyes, looking from Diane back to Kalinda. “I'm thinking about what you told Carl Franklin he would never ask McVeigh, but _we_ sure can. Kalinda, look more into his personal life. I want to know why he has been single for so long. See if there's anything there.”

“Eli, I just said I don't want to go personal,” Diane objects again. But she hesitates – on second thought, she would like to at least _know_ , even if she doesn't use it. “Nevermind – see what you can find out.”

“Okay, I'm on it.”

“What else do we know about him?” Diane asks. “Who's running his campaign?”

Eli laughs snidely. “A bunch of amateurs, some of his students. Total grassroots operation.”

“Right,” Cary laughs too, “he's surrounded himself with a lot of pretty co-eds from the Young Republicans.”

“We could use that – doesn't sit right with a lot of people, creepy old guy and a lot of girls in their twenties.”

“Absolutely not, we're not going there,” Diane says adamantly, disgusted. She recognizes another, baser part of her reacting to the thought as the average voter might – unsettled by the image of it. She tries to force it out of her mind.

“It could be very subtle – you know, a series of ads full of clips with his girlfriends all around him.”

“ _No_ ,” Diane says, bristling, and it's clear that is the last word on the subject. “As a matter of fact, I don't think someone polling at 16% merits an attack ad at all.”

“Fair enough,” Eli throws up his hands as if admitting defeat, although Diane knows better to trust that he has let it go. “We stick to the issues – when it comes to Tea Party nutjobs, they practically do all the work for us, anyway. All right, that's it, back to work everyone!”

As they file out, Diane pulls Kalinda aside, speaking quietly. “Kalinda, whatever you find out about McVeigh's personal life... bring it to me first, all right?”

“All right.” Kalinda gives her a long inscrutable look. “Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?”

“No, just let me know if anything seems... off.”

Kalinda nods indifferently. “Okay.”

Diane watches her walk away, feeling slightly guilty for wasting her best resources this way. But she dismisses the thought a moment later – the information may still prove to be significant to the race, and after all, it's not as unethical as using campaign funds for a candlelit dinner or a night in the Westin Presidential Suite. 

Even more horrified by that thought, she strides down the hall back to her own office to bury herself in work before she can carry it any further. 

 

…

 

Diane lets herself into her apartment at the end of the day and turns on the television, more focused on the screen than what she's doing as she slips out of her shoes and lets her purse fall to the sofa. As if on cue, Justice scampers over to her. “Hey Justice, hey girl,” she whispers as she bends down to pet her absentmindedly. 

The dog yips and tries to jump on her. “Shh, don't you want to watch this? Your favorite is on.”

On the news, Kurt McVeigh is droning on about balancing the state budget and she's much too tired to consider the merits of what he's proposing. She's just mindlessly watching his lips move until suddenly he has her full attention – _“Now what people like Ms Lockhart fail to understand...”_

There it is again, that playful emphasis he puts on her name. She wouldn't have expected him to say it that way to a reporter – but she realizes he's counting on no one else being able to hear it.

_He's counting on my watching this_ , she thinks – then dismisses it, laughing at herself. It's all in her head, she tells herself, whatever it is. 

She puts it out of her mind, wandering over to the table where her housekeeper leaves the mail. Underneath the usual small pile of envelopes and advertisements, she finds a small gift-wrapped package. She hesitates, her fingertips hovering over the attached card. She should allow her staff to inspect any unexpected packages, she knows. But glancing back at the television, she also has a fair idea who this is from.

She pulls the card out of the envelope slowly, strangely nervous to have her suspicions confirmed. She hesitates, then, hearing her name on the television again.

_“Is there anything you and Diane Lockhart do agree about?”_ the reporter asks.

Kurt looks straight into the camera and says, _“I don't know her very well yet. I would love to find out.”_

Apparently missing any possible double meaning, the reporter concludes, _“Well, folks, perhaps we'll all find out when the first of three gubernatorial debates air right here on Channel 2, live on September 22.”_

Diane closes her eyes, the card still unopened in her hand. She's exhausted and she's imagining things. There was no double meaning there. She does not want there to be a double meaning there. But still she is holding a card in her hand that she knows is from him – and that certainty comes from somewhere.

If it is from anyone else, she tells herself, she will know she is crazy.

She makes up her mind and pulls the card from the envelope, flipping it open quickly, a blank plain notecard signed simply, _Mr McVeigh_ , the 'mister' underlined. She smirks, closing the card and turning it over and over again.

She eyes the package warily – _what is he playing at?_ She shakes her head, admonishing herself. She cannot keep allowing him to throw her this way. He does not know the rules of the game, and even if he did he would not play by them. There is no guile in this – and there is certainly no flirtation in this. He is simply being himself, and she'll be smart to figure out what that entails sooner rather than later.

Resolutely, she turns to the package, holding her breath as she lifts the lid. When she sees what it is she laughs, a deep throaty laugh that serves to dispel all of her nerves. It is simply a book – what appears to be a very old, well-used copy of _Mrs Bradley's Guide to Stain Removal and Other Household Hints._

She laughs for a long time and then – she doesn't quite know what to do.

At least she knows she is not crazy.


	7. Chapter 7

The entire downstairs of Kurt’s home has been turned into a makeshift campaign headquarters: voter outreach in the living room, envelope stuffing in the dining room, strategy sessions around endless boxes of doughnuts in the kitchen. When he comes downstairs first thing in the morning, the whole operation is already in full swing, dozens of young people, disorganized and passionate, running around and figuring out, just as he is, how to run a campaign. 

“Hey, Miranda,” he says as he pours himself cup of coffee.

“Hey yourself,” she tosses back. She is, as much as anyone, his informal campaign manager. At least she has staked that claim for herself, as the one the others defer to and regard as his protégé. “A package came for you.”

“From who?” he demands.

“Dunno,” she shrugs, giving him a look that reads _not my job_. “It’s on your desk.”

He takes his coffee and a doughnut to his office and finds the box waiting there for him, gift-wrapped with a bow, not unlike the package he had delivered to Diane Lockhart. He smirks down at it as he sits at his desk. Truthfully, he had not expected any response at all – if anything, he thought perhaps he might get another flippant _'this is not the way things are done'_ lecture the next time they met. Certainly he did not expect her to respond in kind.

He pulls the note card from its envelope eagerly, finding only a simple message in her neat script, unsigned: _Thank you_. He smiles, dropping the card and quickly lifting the lid from the box. Clearing the tissue paper aside, he sees she has given him a book in return: _Rules of Civility and Decent Behaviour in Company and Conversation_ , by George Washington. He flips through it, finding a bizarre list of etiquette rules from before the formation of the republic. He laughs, letting the slim volume fall back into the box.

He turns in his chair to look out the window behind him, sipping his coffee. His campaign is unstructured, informal by design. He threw his hat in the ring because he has something to say, and because people seemed to be listening. And because all those idealistic young people out there wanted to help him say it. What’s funny about Diane Lockhart’s preoccupation with the rules, however lighthearted it may be, is that he never intended to follow them at all.

What’s funny is that he never anticipated this preoccupation with Diane Lockhart. The joke, it seems, is also on him.

“So, who’s it from?”

He turns around again to see Miranda leaning in his doorway.

“No one,” he says with a forced casualness, replacing the tissue paper and the lid.

“You could just tell me it’s personal, I can take a hint,” she laughs.

“No, it’s nothing, just a little joke. Come on in,” he gestures for her to enter, perhaps a little too broadly. “What’s the news today?”

She raises her eyebrows at his odd behavior, but chooses to ignore it. “Well, you’re starting to make waves. You seem to have riled up tired old Howard Lyman, he’s out there railing about the lunatic fringe and how you’re destroying traditional American values.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “How am I doing that, exactly?”

“It doesn’t have to make sense to those who are listening to Howard Lyman, but don’t worry about it, not many people are listening to Howard Lyman.”

“What else?”

She leans forward, grinning, clearly taking a twisted sort of pleasure from sharing this piece of information. “There’s an investigator sniffing around you. Several of the volunteers got a phone call from some woman trying to pry into your personal life.”

“Did she give a name?”

“No, but it’s obvious she’s either with Lockhart or Lyman. Totally obvious what she was trying to do, asking if you ever made a pass at them, whether they saw that kind of activity around the office or at school. Disgusting.”

Kurt frowns, glancing sideways at the package on his desk. “That doesn’t sound like Diane Lockhart.”

“Kurt, far be it from me to stop you from thinking the best of people, that’s why we all like you so much. But trust me, career politicians like her would do _anything_ to win.”

“I don’t know.” He waves his hand as if he’d rather forget about the whole thing.

Miranda is undeterred. “Once we figured out what she was up to, we recorded a couple of the calls. We can expose this kind of tactic to the press, Kurt. Give us a couple days, we can probably figure out who she is. Or better yet, we could spin it as if it could be either campaign – it’ll turn a lot of people against both of them, the establishment trying to blackball the underdog.”

He shakes his head, reminding her sternly, “You know we didn’t get into this race to play that game.”

“Yeah, but if you could win, don’t you want to?”

He sighs. “Let me think about it.”

She accepts this, knowing all too well how stubborn he can be until he’s ready to be pushed. She gets up to go, pausing again in his doorway. “They are coming after you, Kurt. That _is_ the game.” 

Kurt sets down the coffee cup, propping up his head on one hand as he considers the situation. This sort of sleazy, personal attack is what kept him on the fringes of politics for so long – and Diane had said as much in an interview the other day; he thought he had recognized some kind of kindred spirit in her. He knows these are the rules of the game. But somehow he thought, with her at least, they could work out a new game.

He glances at her gift again. Part of him doesn’t want to even acknowledge it, but he is not the sort of man who can bury his head in the sand, either. He won’t go to the press, as Miranda suggested. He would rather go straight to the source.

That settled, he picks up the phone, checks his address book and dials.

“Lockhart 2014, this is Paulina, how may I direct your call?”

“Paulina,” he stretches out each syllable of her name, trying to sound familiar and charming. “Hi, sorry, I think I spoke to Gretchen last week.”

“Gretchen is no longer with the campaign. How may I help you? Are you looking for volunteer opportunities, or would you like to make a pledge?”

“Not exactly,” Kurt laughs. “This is Kurt McVeigh.”

He hears Paulina hesitate, probably wondering if she should just hang up on this prank caller.

He pushes on. “Could you put me through to Diane Lockhart?”

Another long silence passes before she says hurriedly, “Let me put you on hold for just one second.”

She leaves for what turns out to be several minutes several minutes, just as Gretchen did before her, and he is beginning to become familiar with the bright Vivaldi hold music now. He had expected something more patriotic the first time, but after meeting her in person this seems somehow more appropriate. 

He sits back in his chair, imagining Paulina trying to figure out what to do, conferring with her fellow volunteers, and finally knocking nervously on Diane’s door. If she goes to Diane before she goes to anyone else on her staff, he figures he’ll get through. If not, he might find his number permanently blocked.

“Mr McVeigh?” Paulina comes back, sounding as if she’s trying to keep from laughing. He can picture a group of interns crowded around her, on speakerphone now.

Well, why disappoint them? “It sure is,” he says, playing up the slight twang in his voice.

“I’ll just put you through now.”

The phone rings four or five times before Diane picks up on the other end; he laughs, familiar with this ploy now.

When she does answer, her voice is crisp. “Diane Lockhart, how may I help you?” 

“Ms Lockhart, how are you?”

“Mr McVeigh,” she greets him, and he can hear the smile behind her sharp pronunciation.

“I, uh, just wanted to thank you, for schooling me in the art of proper behavior,” he says.

“My pleasure. And thank you for the book; I never would have known a teaspoon of sugar can cure hiccups.”

“Oh, you’ll find lots of helpful hints there – kept a few generations of McVeighs alive, anyway. How’s your jacket?”

“I took it to the dry cleaner’s, it’s as good as new.”

He can hear her teasing him. That’s just fine, he thinks, a crooked smile coming over his face. 

“Listen, I’ll just come right out and ask – Ms Lockhart, are you having me investigated?”

“Well, yes, of course I am,” she laughs. “We’re constantly engaged in opposition research, I would think you’d–”

“–find that customary?” he supplies. “Yes, well, it’s come to my attention that this investigation has been rather personal in nature, and I’m not saying it’s your campaign, Ms Lockhart, but I was hoping we could establish a certain… understanding between us.”

“What do you propose?”

“I’m never going to come out and baselessly attack you. I hope you’ll extend me the same courtesy.”

“Have you worked out a similar deal with Mr Lyman?”

He hesitates, seeing where she’s headed. “Not exactly, no.”

“Have you ever even called Mr Lyman this way?”

“No,” he admits, grudgingly. “To be honest, I don’t see him as a serious candidate.”

“He’s polling better than you are,” she points out.

“For now.”

“So your plan is to, what, take him down first, and then come after me?”

He smiles again. “If you like, yes.”

She laughs. “Well, listen, as long as we’re going to keep having these chats, perhaps I should give you my direct number?”

“I’d like that.”

As they exchange numbers, Kurt wonders what could make her take such a leap, but he doesn’t register his astonishment. He figures she is either trying to throw him off guard, or she doesn’t want to explain to a revolving door of assistants that he should be put through, no questions asked.

Diane clears her throat. “As to the investigations into your personal life – I’ll find out, and if it’s us, I’ll put a stop to it.”

“I appreciate that.” He knows he should leave it at that, but he can’t help but add, “Waste of time, anyway, I’m unattached.”

“Oh,” she responds simply, and he winces, not sure if it sounds like relief, confusion, or contempt.

“All right, I’ll let you go. Thanks,” he says, then adds quickly, “I mean for the book, again.”

“Likewise,” she says silkily, and ends the call.

He shakes his head, laughing to himself as he hangs up the phone. That isn’t the way he expected the conversation to go, but he finds he isn’t disappointed. 

He can’t figure her out, but he enjoys trying. Perhaps they are working out some new game of their own after all, and she is simply one step ahead.


	8. Chapter 8

Diane hangs up the phone, smiling to herself, half-hiding it with a hand over her mouth. It was a mistake to have Kalinda ask such personal questions, and she is embarrassed about it. Well – at least she is embarrassed at getting caught.

_Anyway, I'm unattached_ , he said, and she can't stop playing the line over and over again. She shakes her head; what a thing to just blurt out. She might as well have just asked him – he seemed to be as eager to let her know as she was to find out.

A knock at her door makes her jump, but she quickly pulls herself together, sitting up straight.

Kalinda pokes her head in. “Is this a good time?”

“Of course, come in.”

Kalinda sits in the chair across from her, a notebook and a folder in her lap. “You wanted me to come to you first with whatever I found out about McVeigh's personal life.”

“Yes, about that – I think he knows you've been digging around.”

“What makes you think that?”

Diane realizes the second after she said it that she has exposed herself – she couldn't know that unless she was talking to someone in the McVeigh camp, or to McVeigh himself. She tenses up – but then again, why shouldn't she? The thing itself is not damning. Kurt called her out on her activities, and he was well within his rights to do so. If only it had begun and ended there, she would have nothing to feel guilty about at all.

Mercifully, Kalinda does not press for an explanation. “I thought a couple of his volunteers might have started talking among themselves.”

“He hasn't – he's not –?” She has a sudden mental image of Kurt with his arm around one of his young followers and she can't quite bring herself to articulate it.

Kalinda smiles evenly. “There have been some insinuations in the press – planted by Canning and Lee, no doubt. But I had to look into it.”

“And?”

“If you're looking for someone to go on the record with any sort of accusation or character attack, I don't think you're going to find one.”

“I'm not,” Diane says, and hearing it come out a little too sharply, adds, “Not unless there's good reason to.”

“I didn't find any evidence that would support the rumors.” Kalinda pauses, then adds, a hint of playfulness in her voice, “Nothing that should impact the campaign.”

Diane can plainly see Kalinda has put two and two together – she wouldn't be the skilled investigator she knows she is if she hadn't. She can trust Kalinda to be discreet about it, but there is no doubt she knows that she is not asking as a candidate; she is asking as a woman.

But she finds that when it comes right down to it, she does not feel nearly as embarrassed, as guilty, as she perhaps ought to be. And since they have established this understanding, she might as well just come out and ask. “What about his past – any angry ex-girlfriends, has he ever been married?”

“He's never been married. I spoke with a woman he was seeing around the time of his first book deal. The most negative she would say about him is that he can be distant, obsessive about his work.”

Fair enough, Diane muses to herself – so could she.

“Would you like me to continue investigating?”

“No, that's enough. Thank you.”

Kalinda nods, closes her notebook, and gets up to leave. Diane notices the folder in her hand again and asks, “Is there anything in there you wanted to show me?”

“Oh, no, just some invoices for Eli.” Kalinda pauses in the doorway for a long moment, then adds, “Diane, whatever you do about McVeigh, I would advise that you stick to his political dealings.”

Diane holds her gaze just long enough to be sure they're talking about the same thing, then looks away.

She appreciates Kalinda for her discretion and her honesty, at least. If Kalinda were anything like Eli, she would have invented some story to dissuade her. She could easily have played up the young girls, or painted McVeigh as a loner weirdo living in seclusion in the woods. She at least deals with her as an adult, as if she only needs to be armed with the information to make the right choices, or else deal with her own consequences. Eli treats all of his clients like wayward children who need to be handled, or out of control teenagers, a sex scandal waiting to happen. If he only knew about _this_... Diane laughs to herself, imagining his reaction. 

There is no _this_ , of course. And she doesn't need Kalinda to tell her; she has no intention of allowing there to be. But she is not going to lie to herself, either. She knows exactly what is happening here, and if things were different, she would pursue it. It would be nothing but a fling, of course, just something she needed to get out of her system, but he is strangely... exciting. There is something so exasperating and willfully contrary about him, but every time there might be argument there is only flirtation and every time she talks to him some part of her is always thinking the only way to erase that maddening lopsided smirk is to kiss it off his face– 

_This needs to stop._ She is going to stop this before it ever goes that far.

But she has just given him her cell phone number, and she finds she does not regret it.

She catches herself staring ridiculously, dreamily into space again and snaps herself out of it. Determined to find some better way to occupy her mind, she stands and strides out of her office. She crosses the main office floor – noting with some amusement the way everything quiets down, everyone straightens up and gets back to work when they see her pass by – on the way to Eli's office. Perhaps he has some notes on her speech to the IBIC next week, or some new paranoid delusion he wants to run by her, or just anything that will stop her from imagining pushing Kurt into a dark corner somewhere, whispering _don't talk, just don't talk..._

She stops several feet away, noticing that Eli's door is shut and he is not alone. Through the glass panel she can see it's Kalinda, and he appears to be raving mad about whatever was inside the folder she had with her before. She narrows her eyes, watching for some clue. He cannot be that upset about invoices, she is sure about that much.

“Hey, Diane,” Cary comes to stand beside her. “Eli busy?”

“What do you know about that?” she asks, pointing at the two of them. Eli appears to have calmed down somewhat now, and Kalinda has started taking notes.

“I have no idea,” he says, but he sounds as interested as she is.

“They're keeping something from me.” She looks at him sideways, a thin conspiratorial smile coming over her features.

“Want me to find out?” he offers eagerly.

“Please do.” 

She turns and walks back, not letting them know she has seen a thing. It isn't exactly the productive work she was looking for, but now at least she has something to distract her from Kurt McVeigh.


	9. Chapter 9

“What’s with the extra security?” Diane scowls as she tries to move forward into the museum atrium, impeded by two guards flanking her on either side and a third following behind. She is trying to work up support for public arts and solicit donations at a museum fundraiser in Springfield, but every time she turns around she bumps into one of them.

“What do you mean?” Eli asks, deliberately casual.

“We usually bring one agent to these things, and you’ve got three on me.” She laughs, gesturing at the crowd. “It’s only open to museum donors for God’s sake, Eli.”

“It can be a rough crowd after you get a couple glasses of wine in them,” he jokes, avoiding her question. 

Ignoring him, Diane gets to work shaking hands, turning on her megawatt smile, and going through her talking points about the need for increased public funding of the arts. All the while, she is conscious of Eli and her small posse sticking close behind her.

She moves from one group of donors in search of another, Eli quickly falling into step beside her again. “What on earth is Farmer Bob doing here?”

Confused for a moment, she follows his line of sight to Kurt McVeigh across the room. He is smartly dressed in a suit and tie, his hair neatly combed back, and for a moment it stops her dead in her tracks to see how well he cleans up. 

She recovers herself, grumbling back at Eli, “He’s not a farmer, and frankly it’s insulting to a whole swath of voters when you call him that.”

“Whoa, I’m sorry,” Eli says mockingly, dramatically putting up his hands in a gesture of false contrition.

Diane turns away again, launching into her spiel about budget shortfalls at public institutions to another small group who appear ready to pull out their checkbooks after five minutes of her time. She continues to cold-shoulder Eli, fidgeting and obsessively checking his emails nearby. But she can’t help but glance over at Kurt, now that she has spotted him. He is waving his arms passionately, clearly defending his position on public arts to an unreceptive audience. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration, mussing it up slightly, and she smiles at the sight of it, biting her lip.

“You were saying?” the woman standing across from her prompts.

“I’m sorry?” Diane turns back to her. If she had been saying anything, she has completely forgotten it now.

“You were saying that endowment funds—”

“Right, endowment funds are at a 30-year low,” she picks up automatically, “and government support hasn’t bounced back since the recession. Which is why—”

She glances back over at him, intending to look only for a moment, but now she sees he has noticed her, too. He smiles and nods at her, and she freezes in place. She pulls herself up to her full height then, tossing a quick smile back at him and turning away again, trying to pick up where she left off, if only for his benefit.

“Which is why—” she repeats, needing a beat to remember her practiced pitch. “It’s why we need your support, both in November and tonight, to do what you can to support Illinois’ public museums.”

She excuses herself as soon as she can, turning to Eli and saying softly, “Watch from a distance if you like, but I’m going to shake you and my little army now. No arguments.”

Without waiting for a response, she strides away from him and in Kurt’s direction. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, quickly turning the giddy smile she can’t quite suppress into cursory greetings to the donors she passes by.

She’s just going to say hello. There’s no harm in that.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she greets him, a more contemptuous smile taking over her face, now that she confronts him.

He smiles back sheepishly, evidently happier to take punishment from her than from the skeptical arts patrons he has been trying to sell his message to. “Not my first choice, believe me. Probably about the same as you feel about pancake breakfasts.”

“Oh, that was fun!” she exclaims, a little too enthusiastically to be believed. “Maybe you’ll end up having fun here, after all.”

He merely grimaces in return. 

A waiter passes by carrying glasses of wine on a tray, and she stops him, grabbing one for them both. He accepts it with a look of gratitude. “Let me guess – you’re more of a beer guy?”

“Oh no, this will do,” he says, drinking deeply. 

She takes a long sip, smiling over the top of the glass at him. “You don’t support public funding of the arts, do you?”

“No, but I do believe in private charitable contributions.” 

She laughs, longer than is perhaps warranted, but she has noticed the way he watches her when she does. “So that’s your angle here – ‘vote for me and I’ll slash state budgets further, and you can pick up the whole tab?’”

“Yep,” he says, laughing in return.

“Diane Lockhart!” a man approaches, cutting off whatever sharp remark was on the tip of her tongue. He all but steps between her and Kurt, acting as if they go way back. He looks vaguely familiar to her, but she cannot place him. She pretends she does, leaning in to accept a kiss on the cheek – better for donations to let him think he is somehow special.

“How are you?” she responds, and soon several others gather around them. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Kurt attempting to shrink back and leave the conversation, and part of her wants to grab his sleeve, keep him there.

This pushy man does the work for her. “Kurt McVeigh, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well,” he says, extending a hand to shake. “Always room for a robust debate, eh?”

“That’s what I always say,” he agrees, casting a sideways glance at Diane.

“Why don’t you both give us your best pitch right now?” he laughs, and there is a nasty edge to it that makes her feel he is making fun of Kurt. However much she disagrees with him, for some reason she finds she cannot stand to see him ridiculed.

“Perhaps we should wait for the actual debates – they’re only a few weeks away,” Diane says, trying to keep the mood light.

The man and his friends begin to protest and Kurt says, good-naturedly, “No, go ahead, give it your best shot.”

“All right,” Diane says slowly, suppressing a small smile. To amuse these jerks, no, but if it amuses Kurt… “Chicago ranks 10th of 13 large cities in a recent study on arts funding, 10th of 13. And statewide funding is dropping during a time when attendance at public museums is only increasing. This great state deserves better, but people like Kurt McVeigh,” – she shakes her head derisively and jabs at him as she says his name – “would seek to roll back or destroy all arts funding.”

She continues with passion, on a roll now, while he just watches her patiently. “Local arts grants cost the average taxpayer 44 cents per year. Do you have 44 cents to spare, Mr McVeigh? Could you double it; could you spare 88 cents? Triple it and we’d be barely above Philadelphia, still well behind Houston.”

He laughs gently, shaking his head. “I can spare it, but I want to make my own decisions about where my money goes. You give that decision back to the average taxpayer, maybe you’ll start to see charitable contributions rise. Arts programs should be funded by the private sector. If we’re going to use the money for government projects at all, I think it would be better spent on aging, disabled and veteran’s services.”

In spite of herself, her eyes go a little wide. He can argue further than a “yep” and a “nope” when called upon. He looks back at her with a subtle air of gloating.

“I guess either way, you both want me to write a big check tonight, eh?” The man laughs again, making a display of wishing them both well in November but elbowing Diane as if to say _of course you have my vote_. She grins and bears it, until finally they move on.

“You need to know your audience,” she says softly, turning back to Kurt, teasing him. 

He narrows his eyes, looking around the room. “Yeah, I think everyone here tonight could afford to give more than 44 cents to the arts.”

She smiles back at him. “I admire you, you know, for coming out here and saying what you think. You couldn’t have thought it would be an easy sell.”

“I’ll say it to anyone who will listen,” he sighs, “but in the end I think my staff just wanted a night out in Springfield.”

He inclines his head toward a small group of college-aged women, laughing and drinking among themselves, seeming to have forgotten about official business for the night. Eli was right; his campaign operation is just a bunch of amateurs – and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

She looks at him in disbelief. “You say things that are _astonishing_ to say to an opponent.”

He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. She shakes her head, smiling again. Maybe he’s right.

“Well, I’d better get back to handshaking,” she says, but she makes no immediate move to go, taking in again how nice he looks in a proper suit. He smirks in return – _that maddening smirk_ – making no secret of the enjoyment he takes in the sight of her, too. Pointedly, his eyes travel from her hair to her partially exposed collarbone, stopping fixedly on her lips, but move no lower, and her pulse quickens with the realization that she _wants_ his eyes all over her. Unsettled by the tension between them, she puts an end to it with a curt “Goodnight, Mr McVeigh.”

“Ms Lockhart,” he responds, with a flirtatious tilt of the head.

She turns and walks in the opposite direction, certain until the crowd swallows her that he is taking in every line and curve of her backside now, and that he is equally in torment.


	10. Chapter 10

“So!” Eli begins as soon as they sit down at the hotel bar. “Let's talk about your remarks to the Federation of Teachers next week.” 

Diane shakes her head wearily. It has been a long day, she has been shaking hands and smiling for three hours straight, all she wants to do is get to her room and take off this dress, and Eli looks as if he could go on all night.

“Honestly, Eli, can't we at least order a drink first?”

“Of course.” Eli turns and flags down a waiter with his usual drama and efficiency. “Scotch neat, and –?”

“Glass of Malbec, thanks.”

The waiter hesitates before leaving, fighting a losing battle with his self-restraint. “I'm a huge fan,” he blurts out. “Could I take a selfie of us?”

“Sure,” she says, struggling to be gracious as the young man puts his arm around her and spends a good minute framing the shot and adjusting the lighting. Eli's obvious pleasure in her torment does nothing to help her mood. 

“Thank you so much,” he beams when he is finally satisfied with the picture. “I'll be right back with those drinks.”

“ _He's a fan_ ,” Diane rolls her eyes, turning back to Eli. “I swear to God, if I have to smile one more time tonight...”

“Now, about the Federation,” Eli launches right back into it, undeterred. “They're going to have serious issues with your stance on pension reform.”

“I'd like to know whether they like Lyman or McVeigh's stance any better,” she says, dismissing it with a wave of her hand.

“Yeah, well we're not going to give them any concessions when you have no competition on the left, but--” Suddenly he is distracted, his eyebrows going up in exaggerated shock. “Why is he _everywhere_ we turn?”

Diane follows his gaze to the bar and sees Kurt McVeigh has turned up again. “You said he'd be chasing me soon,” she reminds Eli, enjoying the fact that the full meaning of her words is lost on him. And as easily as that, she finds herself smiling again. 

Eli leans forward, grinning, a new spin on the situation occuring to him. “People are going to eat it up, debates between the two of you. If it was just Howard Lyman, it'd be a total snoozefest, no one would tune in. But now you're really going to have the spotlight. You know, maybe his entering the race will turn out to be a net positive for you.”

“Hmm, maybe,” she muses, feigning disinterest. She has already made up her own mind on that score.

Eli's phone rings and he looks down to see who it is. He looks back up at her apologetically, as if she would mind any delay to this late-night strategy session. “I need to take this – I'll be right back.”

A moment after he leaves, the waiter returns with their drinks. If he makes another tiresome comment now, Diane no longer hears it, looking past him to Kurt sitting there at the bar, nursing a beer. _I called it_ , she thinks. Unless he had already seen her and ordered it only for her benefit – which she half suspects now, as he catches her eye and raises his glass to her.

Diane sips her wine, watching him laugh and joke with his entourage of younger women. She can see where someone could get the wrong idea – and if he had any kind of an image consultant, they would tell him to distance himself from them immediately. Eli would sweep in and fire them all his first day on the job. In an odd way, she admires him for not caring about what it looks like. And she isn't going to stop him if he wants to shoot himself in the foot politically. She could almost get the wrong idea about it herself, but for the way he keeps sneaking glances at her, smiling.

She is coming right up on the edge of taking this too far, she knows. But she hasn't crossed it yet. She takes a long drink, smiling back.

Eli isn't gone more than five minutes before he approaches her table. 

“Ms Lockhart. We meet again.”

“You're staying here, too?”

“Small town.” He gestures toward her drink. “Can I get you another?”

“No,” she smiles, shaking her head. “Thank you.”

She looks down, conscious of how close his hand is to her hand there on the table. 

Some part of her wishes she could forget who she is and what anyone might think, the way he does. If she could shut that part of her mind off for a moment she would just reach out, brush the back of her fingers against his, and accept the drink.

“I noticed your manager abandoned you. And my staff is about to to searching for someplace... livelier.”

She tries to stifle a laugh. “I can't get over your calling them your staff.”

“What else would I call them?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “I don't know what to make of you.”

“I'm not very mysterious,” he shrugs. He hesitates, looking at her sideways. But like always, nothing stops him from saying exactly what is on his mind. “Look, do you want to... take a walk, or something?”

Her eyes go a little wide, and she laughs again. “Are you serious?”

“Sure. Aren't you tired of being handled twenty-four hours a day? Give them the slip, for a few minutes.”

He turns his hand over on the table, palm up, offering it to her. 

She looks back at him, incredulous, conscious that they are being watched. “Stop.”

“All right,” he laughs lightly, reaching his hand out for his drink instead.

She is dumbfounded, but the very idea makes her feel a little giddy. “Where would we go?”

He shrugs again, as if he has not thought this out. “I don't know, around.”

She takes a look around the room. Kurt's companions are drunk and in a world of their own. Eli has stepped into the lobby, preoccupied with his phone call. One security guard – the other two already dismissed – is babysitting a seltzer water two tables away. She really only has to worry about him.

She leans closer, whispering conspiratorially. “Walk down to 7th Street, meet me there in ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” he agrees.

He walks away with no further comment, pays his bar tab, and presumably makes some excuse to the three women waiting for him. She sits absolutely still for a couple of minutes, feeling nervous and alive – she has set something in motion, which she can follow through or easily take back. Just the thought of it is thrill enough. She could go to bed satisfied now, getting more of a buzz from the possibility of walking down the street with that man than from the wine in front of her, or from chatting with supporters all night.

Or she could actually go with him.

She finishes her drink and walks over to the guard. He is young and shy and, she knows, will be more fearful of annoying her now than he ought to be of Eli's wrath later. “Frank, when Eli comes back, tell him I went up to my room for something, and I'll be right back.”

“I should come with you--” he begins to protest.

“Don't be silly. I'll be right back.”

She doesn't wait for a response before turning away. She quickens her pace, only half sure neither Frank nor Eli could possibly see her head toward the street rather than the elevators. She doesn't care now; she is making her getaway.

As she walks down the street she tells herself _this is crazy, this is crazy_ on repeat, and she's so excited now by the thought of doing something so _normal_ and yet so _wrong_ that she isn't sure she hasn't gone just a little insane. But when she sees him there waiting at the corner, as promised, the only thought left is _fuck it_.

“Hello,” she greets him simply. She feels awkward and strange now, at a loss for words.

“Hello,” he smiles back. “Do you feel a little like an escaped prisoner?”

“I do,” she laughs, but it's a short, forced laugh. She turns and starts walking, if only as an outlet for her nervous energy. She wants to forget who she is, who they are, but she finds she can't. She imagines every person who passes them recognizes them and knows exactly what they're up to. 

He notices, looking at her sideways. “No one's watching us. No one cares.”

“I don't know if that's exactly true,” she says, taking in and letting out a large breath. She feels more hemmed in and scrutinized now than she had before. But they're here, and she's not turning back.

They walk along silently for what feels like an eternity – now that they have managed their escape, she doesn't know what to say. What could they have to say to each other, anyway? It is a lovely late-summer night, at least, and she tries to focus on that, reminding herself of how good it is just to walk aimlessly, not owing her energies to anything in particular. She tries not to become preoccupied with the weight of the growing silence, his steady presence beside her, the time ticking by.

They turn down Capitol Avenue, the towering domed statehouse ahead.

“There it is, the ultimate prize.” She looks over at him, trying to find that lighthearted tone that came so quickly to her tongue before. 

He makes a grunting noise in acknowledgment, not interested in making small talk about the architecture or offering some bit of Springfield trivia he can call to mind. But he smiles back, and it begins to put her at ease.

She narrows her eyes slightly, sizing him up. “You know, somehow, I can't quite picture you there.”

“Must have spent too much time picturing yourself there.”

“No, I mean – living in the executive mansion, working in the East Wing... It's a far cry from your cabin in the woods.”

“I'll redecorate. I'll take down the portraits of dead white men, put up a lot of mounted deer heads.”

She laughs. “Oh, good. That's more like it.”

“Maybe I'll invite you over sometime, you can give me design advice.”

Her eyes go a little wide at the suggestion, thrown by it although it is obvious he is joking. She changes the subject quickly. “I think Howard Lyman sees you as a threat. You have him running scared.”

“Howard Lyman is an old fool.”

“Yes, but you're only going to split the conservative vote with him if you don't take him seriously.”

“I don't want to talk about Howard Lyman,” he says, just a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

“I know,” she says softly.

She is not willfully missing the point of this, but she cannot quite give in to it.

She is not going to give in to it. She is a candidate for governor running against this man – she finds she has to tell herself over and over. She so easily forgets, their hands brushing against each other, walking easily side by side. He was right; no one cares who they are. To those who pass them by, they are any ordinary well-matched couple walking down the street. She can see how this could be mistaken for that.

They cross the street to the grounds of the Capitol, walking along a dimly lit, tree-lined path. They move more slowly than before, taking in the beauty of the scene. Looking up at the building, a question she has no right to ask comes into her mind, but she finds she cannot dismiss it. 

“Do you really want this, Kurt?”

“That's a first,” he notes, rather than answer the question.

“What?”

“You called me Kurt.”

“Oh, well, government buildings out my informal side,” she laughs. 

“I missed that part in the _Rules of Civility_.”

She hadn't noticed or intended the familiarity. She reflects with some sudden clarity that all of this has gotten hopelessly away from her, but it doesn't stop her from asking again.

“I'm serious, though. Why are you running?"

“I told you that the first time I called you. There's nothing more up my sleeve.”

“But do you really want to be part of all this?” She stops walking, turning to face him, gesturing broadly at the buildings around them. “I mean, all the black-tie events, the showboating, the petty bickering, the constantly defending yourself. It's nine parts that for every one part work – and the work almost invariably falls apart.”

“I'm still hopeful I can change that parts I don't like.”

“You can't change a system you fundamentally disagree with in four years, Kurt. Certainly not with a legislature controlled by Democrats.” She looks him deeply in the eye, concerned that he at least know what he is signing up for. “I worry a life of politics would slowly kill you.”

“Has it slowly killed you?” he asks softly.

There is no quick or easy answer to that question, and she is starting to feel the tension of the personal turn this conversation has taken, nevermind that she started it. She forces a laugh, searching for the playful banter that had come so easily to them before. “My campaign manager thinks you're part of a broad conspiracy to distract and discredit me.”

He doesn't laugh this time, staring at her in that unnerving, intent way of his. “Am I?”

“What?” she asks, not following him again.

“Distracting you?”

“No.”

“Maybe this is all part of the plot.”

“Oh, yes, lure me down here to a romantic spot, and just when you have me good and distracted, that's when the photographers jump out from behind the bushes, is that it?” she laughs. “I'm on to you, McVeigh.”

He studies her face, waiting for the labored smile to fade, watching as she slowly drops every defense. She knows what will happen next, she has even said it out loud, but it takes her a moment to catch up to the reality of it. 

He inclines his head and leans in toward her, covering a long, torturous distance. She has what feels like ages to comprehend what is happening and to react, but it is still somehow a surprise when his lips meet hers, and the only reaction that seems to make any sense is to close her eyes softly, drift closer to him, and respond in kind.

His touch is tentative, just a brush of the lips, seeking only this contact. She presses back, holding him in one deep, slow kiss until she opens her mouth to him slightly, her lips moving softly over his now. He draws her lower lip just barely inside his mouth, sucking on it so gently before grazing her just barely with the tip of his tongue, and it is the most simple, erotic thing that when he pulls back she is momentarily breathless.

She is slow to open her eyes, and when she does she sees him looking at her searchingly. There are no photographers, no one watching them at all, and if this were as simple as it felt for a moment, she would not hesitate. 

But it is not simple – and they are never really alone.

She takes a step backward. “This can't happen.” 

His expression does not change, neither agreeing nor protesting. 

“You _know_ this can't happen,” she says more definitely.

“I know why your _campaign manager_ would say it can't happen.”

“You know, I thought it was just your politics but you're actually crazy, aren't you?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I've got to get back. Wait a few minutes before you follow, all right?” 

He nods once, looking away. “Yeah. I get it.”

“We can't ever do this again.”

She waits for him to look back and holds his gaze for a long time, needing to see that he understands. But the warning look she intends quickly turns to wanting, and instead of putting up a wall she feels herself being swallowed up by it. She leans into him again, one hand curling around his neck, pulling his lips hard against hers. His hands hover at her sides, unsure what to do, barely grazing her back, her hips, before maddeningly retreating. She kisses him more deeply than before, reveling in taking him by surprise this time, and in how readily he responds when she slips her tongue past his lips, a little gasp of need escaping her throat.

She stops just as abruptly, disentangling herself with a little shove as she turns and walks in the opposite direction.

It is a longer, colder walk back alone than it had been with him at her side. She replays the few seconds he was touching her over and over in her mind the whole way, veering from exhilaration to disbelief. No matter how she reframes it she cannot quite pin down her emotions, but two things are immediately clear to her: for a moment she felt really free, and she does not feel a bit guilty about it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E.

Diane walks back into the hotel bar as if she has only been gone for five minutes, casually sliding back into her chair across from Eli.

He looks at her with an exaggerated look of disbelief, his voice scolding. “Where the hell were you?” 

She smiles thinly, refusing to respond to his raving. “I told Frank to tell you I’d be right back.”

“You were gone forever – why didn’t you respond to my messages?”

She realizes he is more than scolding her – he was _frantic_. 

She shoots him a look as if he is crazy – and she _would_ think he was crazy if she didn’t feel slightly guilty, some part of her irrationally wondering if he might somehow know. “I got a call.”

“Did you go outside?” Eli presses. 

“Yes, for a minute.”

He fixes a long look on her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re acting strange.”

“ _You’re_ acting strange,” she throws back at him, hearing and not caring how puerile it sounds. “Since when do you care if I go outside?”

She is sure she does look strange. She feels strange, straining to appear self-contained while everything inside her is still buzzing with the thrill of kissing the last man on earth she should be.

Now that he has had the satisfaction of interrogating her, Eli thankfully seems just as eager to forget the whole thing as she is. He takes a deep breath, then leans forward, his hands clasped in front of him on the table. “Anyway. Pension reform.”

Rolling her eyes and seeing that they’re in for a long night, Diane catches the waiter’s eye and requests another glass of wine.

Her seat has an open view of the hotel lobby, and she can’t stop glancing up, hoping to see Kurt come back into the bar. She wants to at least catch his eye, flash him a little smile – let him know she isn’t angry and make sure that he isn’t. In the moment she couldn’t think what else to do, but now she regrets the way she just barked orders at him and left.

No matter what she said, she does not regret the kiss.

Either of them.

“Diane?” Eli waves a hand in front of her face, trying to command her attention. “You’re distracted.”

Diane almost laughs at his choice of that particular word. “I’m just tired.”

“Too early in the campaign to be tired.”

She is glad to let Eli drone on about economic policy while she lets her mind drift back to the specific sensory details that keep popping back into her memory – his fingertips grazing her side, unsure where to land; his startled gasp of breath the second time; the taste of his mouth. 

She glances down at her watch; she has been back for twenty minutes, but still there is no sign of him. The longer he is gone, her secret giddiness at getting away with something, at desiring and being desired, begins to fade. She wants to see him once more tonight – and if she doesn’t, she will wonder. She hates to imagine him still wandering around the state buildings alone, confused, hurt.

“You’re only going to win this fight by making them more afraid of the other guys,” Eli goes on.

“I know,” she says, not particularly caring what she is agreeing with.

“I know you don’t like to play that card, but it’s all we’ve got on this one.”

She nods but she is no longer listening. There he is, finally, but instead of turning back toward the bar, she sees him turn directly to the elevators. He’s going to bed – perhaps he does not even want to see her. But it will eat away at her all night, she knows, if she doesn’t somehow make sure they feel the same way about this, that he will not resent her from making the decision she has no choice but to make. 

She has his cell phone number, she remembers, although every time she has thought of texting him when some idle joke or insult occurred to her throughout the day she has laughed it off. She bites her lip, looking down at her phone on the table. What would she even say?

“And that’s what you say when they try to attack you with that question, which they will,” Eli concludes, sitting back in his chair.

“All right,” Diane says, glancing up at the lobby again hopelessly. 

Eli looks over his shoulder and back at Diane again. “What is with you? Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”

Diane sits up straight, acting offended. “Of course I am!”

But another person passing through the lobby has caught her eye – it’s one of Kurt’s volunteers, she recognizes her from before. She doesn’t seem to be with the others now. She’s fairly intoxicated, walking slowly while trying to text on her phone, occasionally laughing to herself about whatever response she receives. 

An insane idea occurs to Diane – and she has had just enough to drink herself to ignore all the reasons she shouldn’t. But if she’s going to do it, she has no time to think about it.

“You know what, Eli, it’s late. I think I’m going to call it a night,” she says, standing suddenly.

He sighs, but, checking his watch, decides he can’t argue. “All right, but we need to get back first thing tomorrow – remember you have that interview with the Chicago Magazine style writer.”

“How could I forget something so important?” she smiles wryly, trying not to seem overly eager as she walks away. 

She times her exit so that she reaches the elevator just as the young woman does. She makes eye contact with her and smiles politely, looking back at the elevator as if she is slightly impatient.

Diane turns back to her, just making small talk. “These things take forever.”

“Yeah.” The woman looks up, confused for a moment, then finally recognizes Diane, her eyes going wide. “Oh, my God, you’re Diane Lockhart!”

“I am,” Diane laughs.

“I work for Kurt McVeigh’s campaign, actually,” she says. “So this is awkward.”

“Not at all. Saves me from having to give my two-minute sales pitch in the elevator. I hate doing that; it makes me feel like an evangelist.”

The elevator doors open finally, and Diane enters first, going to the control panels. “Of all the hotels in Springfield, we both end up here! I hope we’re not on the same floor, at least. I’m on the tenth, and McVeigh is—?” she prompts, as if she only wants to know which button to push.

“Eighth. Room 812,” she says automatically.

“Oh, he’s practically right underneath me!” 

It takes her a moment, but the younger woman leans over and presses another button, laughing. “I’m on the seventh floor – I can’t believe I just gave you _his_ room number.”

“That’s all right,” Diane laughs, too. “It’s not like I’m going to go knock on his door!”

Diane lets the young woman turn back to whoever she is texting, wishing her a good night as she gets off on the seventh floor. She hesitates for a moment as the doors open again on the eighth, shaking her head. But she gets off. 

There is no reason she needs to do this, she tells herself as she turns down the hallway. She can just text him. It does not matter very much if it sounds lame. _I’m sorry for the way I left._ But she is not sorry, exactly, and she doesn’t want to say she is. Any other phrasing that leaps to mind sounds harsh, when put in words. She knows she can also just do nothing, leave it; there is nothing more to say. She is not going to change her mind.

But as crazy as it is, this is also the only thing that seems right. Nothing needs to change, nothing needs to be said, nothing needs to happen – she jut needs to see him. 

She stops at his door and takes a deep breath. She raises her hand, hesitating just one more moment, and knocks. 

He opens the door, his eyes taking a moment to adjust and comprehend as they fall on her, then widening, unmistakably shocked.

The sight would be almost comical if she weren’t staring too, entranced by the sight of him, his dress shirt half unbuttoned, his hair charmingly mussed.

Finally coming to his senses, he opens the door wider, wordlessly reaches out for her, and gestures for her to come in.

She doesn’t wander far into the room, keeping her back to the door as he shuts it. It feels somehow less dangerous here, the exit a foot away, his bed out of sight. She had not really planned past this point, but now she is thinking about his bed and for the moment it seems more prudent to stay rooted right here. But he stays close, and she makes no effort to put distance between them.

“What is this?” he asks softly.

“I – didn’t like the way we left things.” She realizes now, it doesn’t sound any less lame in person than it would have by text, safely, two floors away.

She does not want to be safe, she realizes now.

“Why not?” Gently, he pushes for an answer.

He deserves one, but she doesn’t have it to give. The truth is as simple and as stupid as this. “The fact that we left things, I think.”

She inclines her face toward him, her eyes drifting closed, but he pulls back slightly. It is more a delay than a rejection.

“You left,” he reminds her. “Has anything changed?”

“No,” she shakes her head. Not the impossibility of the situation, not how much she wants him. “Nothing.”

He reaches out, continuing to hold her at a distance, but his face has softened, his thumbs now tenderly caressing her arms. 

“I want to come clean about one thing, for the record,” he says lightly. “I didn’t get into this race to distract you.”

“No?” She flashes him a teasing smile.

“No.” He shakes his head, smiling back wryly. “But I’ve been wanting to ever since.”

She lets her hands fall to his chest, moving over him idly, coming to rest at the last still-fastened button. “Then maybe I should be honest and admit to you that it’s working.” 

“Oh, I know it’s working.”

“You do, hmm?”

He smirks at her. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

She has no ready retort, and the only possible way to one-up him seems to be to frame his face with both hands, slowly bringing it toward her own. It does, at least, stop his talking.

He is not so hesitant as before, now, his lips eagerly meeting hers, his hands firm on her hips, pulling her closer still. She pushes her back up against the door, pulling him with her, sending him off balance for a moment, colliding against her. He encircles her in his arms, his hands all over her, pinning her there. They are still fighting, teasing, pushing one another, neither one giving ground or backing down, and she decides this is a fine way to have it out, now that the words have gone.

_At least he is not angry_ , she thinks absurdly, laughing into his kisses, feeling him swallow them up hungrily, unquestioningly.

They could play this game forever but now she feels they are somehow stuck here, and she begins to think she would like to see his bed after all.

“Kurt…” she whispers, enjoying the way it still amuses him to hear her say his name, playfully kissing at the upturned corners of his mouth.

“Hmm?” he hums more than pronounces into her neck as he leans down, pressing kisses there.

Rather than answer him, she hooks one foot around his ankle, slowly sliding her heel up his calf. She imagines her meaning is clear.

She feels him exhale harder against her skin, pushing his hip hard against her in response. She continues to slide her leg up his, her hand encouraging his to explore under her skirt as it rises on her thigh. He takes her direction, running his open palm over her, pulling her harder against him at the same time.

“What are we doing, Kurt?” she murmurs, sighing, and she intends it playfully, teasing, but she feels him seize up and begin to withdraw.

“Do you not want to?”

She pulls his face back to hers and kisses him harder in answer, drawing him closer again, but she feels his hesitation now. She places her hand over his, guiding it between her legs again, and she sighs in relief and appreciation as he starts lightly tracing the lines of her panties. She almost wishes she had said nothing, but this would all be so much easier to deal with if he would just acknowledge how crazy this is, how wrong this is, that this is complicated and strange and she at least needs him to be able to laugh about that.

But he is not laughing; he is returning her kisses now so seriously, slowly, sensuously that it unnerves her. He slips his hands under the fabric, tentatively exploring her, and he groans quietly into her mouth as he feels how wet she is already. Her fingers grasp at his back as he begins to stroke her, gently rolling her clit between his fingertips. All the while he keeps kissing her softly, more single-mindedly focused on her now, and it’s overwhelming, trying to breathe steadily and grinding against him and making sense of his attentiveness all at once.

Feverishly, she pulls his shirt free of his pants, quickly undoing the rest of the buttons. She yanks it over his shoulders, forcing him to withdraw his hands and his mouth for a moment so she can pull herself together. He complies, letting it fall to the ground, but she shrugs off his attempt to embrace her again, slipping past him. She strides into the suite and toward the bed, methodically removing her bracelet, necklace and earrings as she goes. She sets them on the bedside table, stepping out of her shoes.

He follows, approaching her with some uncertainty again, she can see out of the corner of her eye, and this satisfies her somewhat. Let him at least find her baffling, if he does not find the situation itself to be so. He should feel unsure for a moment. He should wonder.

He touches her shoulder lightly, running his fingertips down her arm, bowing his head and brushing his lips across the back of her neck. She sighs at his touch, relenting, relaxing against him. He keeps kissing her neck, one arm lightly draped across her front, as he begins to slowly unzip her dress from the back, his knuckles caressing her spine all the way down. She shivers, and she knows he can sense it, she can _feel_ him smiling against her skin. 

He slides the dress off her shoulders, down her arms, his hands trailing over her the whole way. She rolls her head back against his shoulder. She wants to say it again, _this is crazy, we have lost our minds_ , but she holds her tongue. She cannot bear the thought of him stopping.

He lets her step out of the dress, admiring her while he backs toward the bed. She smiles back wickedly, high on his obvious enjoyment, pushing him lightly back to sit on the mattress. She unfastens and pulls off his pants quickly, letting him strip her of her panties and bra too as she straddles him, her knees on either side of his thighs. She kisses him again, curling her fingers under his undershirt and lifting it over his head. Grinding against him, feeling him hard beneath her, seeing the frank awe in his face, she feels as if she has complete power over him. 

She pushes him again, down against the bed, and he falls willingly. They are both ready, and after the way he was touching her before she can’t take any more teasing. She grasps his cock and eases herself down on it, his face now a mix of appreciation for her directness and pleasure in the sensation of her surrounding him. She starts slowly but quickly finds a rhythm, bucking against him harder, holding his shoulders down. He just enjoys this, touching her lightly, watching her, enthralled by the way she takes her pleasure from him. She closes her eyes, his rapt attention too unsettling to handle now, focusing all of her energy on finding her release until all of a sudden it finds her.

She lowers herself, kissing him absent-mindedly as the waves of her orgasm retreat. He holds her, thrusting shallowly to extend her pleasure and maintain his own arousal until he can feel her pulsing has stilled. He deepens their kisses when she has regained her breath, his hands roaming over her, his movements becoming stronger and faster. She finds herself making little noises of encouragement, her hips rising and falling with his again now, stirred by his passion equal to her own, disarmed by how tenderly he expresses it.

With a groan he relaxes against the mattress again, and she waits until he has fully stilled inside her before disentangling herself, rolling over onto her side. She props herself up on one arm, looking over at him. He grins back at her, reaching out for her hand.

She has enjoyed herself, too, there is no doubt about that, and most surprising of all she really _likes_ this man, but she finds herself slightly disturbed that still, _still_ no part of this seems to disconcert him. He turns over on his side, too, leaning in to kiss her again, no hint of ambivalence on his face. Just a hint would be so comforting now – now that she is thinking about how to get back to her room, how to look Eli in the eye tomorrow, how to get back to the campaign trail. All of these complications are racing through her mind now, and he thinks it is all as simple as one more kiss.

She sits upright suddenly, shaking her head. She rests her hand on his shoulder for a moment, stopping him there but squeezing him, she hopes reassuringly. Then she gets up, moving around the bed, hurriedly collecting her things.

He sits up, too, watching her. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am not all right, I just slept with the man I’m running for office against, I’m lying to my campaign manager, I’m sneaking around like some out of control teenager…” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Diane.”

“Oh, yes I have,” her eyes go a little wild as she turns to face him, shimmying back into her dress. “That’s where we’re different. I know this is wrong.”

“Look, I’ve never thought it makes one bit of difference who politicians sleep with. That’s your private business. It has nothing to do with what kind of governor you’d be.”

She shakes her head – he just does not get it. “We can’t keep doing this. Because it is a distraction, Kurt. I’m not doing my job.”

“All right.” She can see he isn’t agreeing; he’s just unwilling to fight with her about it.

Frustrated, she steps back into her shoes, and with a last glance to make sure she has not forgotten anything, she starts to stalk toward the door. And stops halfway.

She turns around again. It would not change anything, but she would feel a good deal more at ease if he would tell her the one thing she needs to hear. “Can you just admit that this is slightly insane?”

“We’re two adults who enjoy each other’s company. I wouldn’t call that insane, no.”

She throws up her hands in exasperation. “I conned your room number out of one of your volunteers. I could have been seen by anyone. I’m risking my career for – for what?”

He shakes his head, unwilling or unable to answer. 

It is not that simple. It is not that easy. He cannot see it; he cannot even see her side.

Turning away again, more distressed by that thought than she is willing to let him see, she storms out.


	12. Chapter 12

Mercifully, Eli leaves Diane alone for most of the drive back to Chicago. She has never known him to be so quiet, keeping to himself the schemes and stresses that she knows are running constantly through his brain. He has no more notes for her upcoming events and stump speeches to share, no more impromptu quizzes on her responses to difficult questions. It is strange, but she does not question it. He sits at a table in the front of the bus, typing furiously but silently on his smartphone, his back to her. She stretches out on one of the bench seats in the back, her laptop open but mostly ignored.

“You look like you could use some sleep” was the last thing he had said to her. He was his usual blunt self about that, but he was right. She was up much too late with Kurt, and later still back in her room, tormenting herself about it. She tries for a while to sleep on the bus and, failing that, to get some work done, but eventually she accepts that neither is going to happen. Even when she swears him off, he remains a distraction.

She glances at her phone compulsively, neither expecting a message from him nor finding one. Finally, annoyed with herself, she shoves it in her bag, out of sight but not entirely out of mind. She made herself clear enough, and she knows he is not going to try again. There is nothing more to be said or done about it. But still, she can't seem to put it out of her mind, cycling between remembering how right it felt, reminding herself how wrong it is.

She stares out the window, trying at least to use the time on the road to refocus and galvanize herself. From now on, she promises herself, the campaign will be her first and only priority. There is no doing this halfway. There is no safe line she can walk right up to with him but not cross. She needs to stop this, right now and altogether. She will see him as her opponent, nothing more and nothing less. 

It is hard to do when she can still feel his hands on every inch of her body.

She almost wishes Eli would pester her now. After three hours this way, his silence feels like more of a punishment than a kindness. 

When they pull back into campaign headquarters in Chicago, she again makes a conscious decision to mentally reset herself. She throws her purse over her shoulder, holds her head high, and strides out of the bus, meeting an assistant halfway and barking orders as she lets him get her bags. She will go back to her office, shut the door, and give her full attention to her work now.

Eli falls into step beside her as they reach the door. “Diane, before I let you get settled – can you come into the conference room for a minute?”

She is about to protest that she just needs an hour or two when she registers how unusually somber and soft-voiced he is. He is acting as strangely now as he was on the bus, and she can't just let that lie.

She nods and follows him in. 

Kalinda and Cary are already waiting in the conference room, looking equally grim. They stop mid-conversation when Diane enters, Eli closing the door behind them. Their lack of subtlety would almost be humorous, but she knows them well enough to be alarmed by it. She notices a blue folder in front of Kalinda – almost certainly the same one from the other day. She tries to catch Cary's eye, silently questioning him – he never did come back to her with any information he might have learned about it – but he is obviously trying to avoid her direct gaze.

“Have a seat, Diane,” Eli says quietly.

Diane does so, with a forced little laugh. “You all look like you're gathering for my funeral.”

“Not the best choice of words,” Eli grimaces.

She raises her eyebrows, baffled and becoming increasingly frustrated by their behavior. “All right, what is going on?”

Eli and Kalinda exchange glances, and Eli nods at her. Kalinda finally looks Diane in the eye, a thin but oddly reassuring smile on her face. “Diane, we didn't want to trouble you with this before we had to.”

“But since you've taken to disappearing on a whim, we have to,” Eli can't stop himself from interjecting, but he relents, sitting back in his chair and deferring to Kalinda again.

“For your safety, we need to bring this to your attention now.” Kalinda slides the folder over to Diane, leaving her hand on it until she adds, “I have to warn you, this is disturbing.”

Diane puts on her glasses, looking at each of them in turn warily. She stops at Cary. “You knew about this, too?” 

He looks away again, sheepish. “I confronted them when you asked me to look into it, Diane, but when I found out what was going on I agreed that it was best to try to quietly protect you.”

She purses her lips, her eyes cold, conveying her displeasure. Sighing, she pulls the folder in front of her, and opens it.

What she finds inside are photocopies of handwritten letters, each in the same messy scrawl. She flips through the small stack, finding them dated and going back nearly the last week, one received each day. She reads the first, her eyebrows knit in confusion at first. It seems to be a barely intelligible rant about her views on abortion, raving about her godlessness. It isn't until she gets to the very end that she realizes what it amounts to.

It is a death threat.

Her heart is in her throat, but she turns the page over, starting to read the second, outwardly keeping her calm. Eli reaches forward and tries to snatch the papers from her.

“It just goes on like that,” he says quickly.

“Eli, now that you've shown me this, I want to know,” she says, her voice low and steady.

“Diane, the letters become increasingly disturbing,” Kalinda agrees. “It isn't important that you know the details. It is important that you understand the need for increased security.”

It dawns on her suddenly – this explained the extra guards at the event last night, and Eli's panic when she went missing for half an hour. Perhaps it even explained why he had decided to go easy on her on the trip back, as if he wanted to give her last moment of peace before they confronted her with this.

“Do you take these seriously?” she asks.

The three exchange glances again. Eli tries to downplay it. “Odds are this is just some crackpot who has nothing better to do. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred, these kind of threats aren't real.”

“But I've received hate mail, even threatening letters,” Diane points out. “You never hid them from me before.”

“I took the originals to a friend of mine at the FBI,” Kalinda says. “The graphic nature of the threats and the consistency warranted further investigation.”

Diane closes the folder and slides it back across the table. On consideration, she does not want to know specifically what this lunatic intends to do to her. Her imagination will give her enough to brood over.

She sits up straight, facing this new reality head-on. “What do I need to do?”

Eli is firm in telling her how it will be, anticipating that she won't like it. “You're going to have a minimum of three agents on you at every public event, plus plainclothes officers even you won't recognize. You will have an agent outside your door every night when you go home, and at every hotel you stay at.”

She does not like it, but she accepts it, nodding. 

“There is one more thing, Diane,” Kalinda says slowly, casting a sideways glance at Eli again as if looking for confirmation. He shrugs, indicating it is her call.

“What more could there be?” Diane tries to laugh.

“I would like you to seriously consider carrying a gun. At a minimum, when you are home alone.”

“No. The rest of it I will go along with, but not that.” When she sees Kalinda about to argue, she raises a hand to quiet her. “I mean it.”

If she is going to maintain any control over this situation, she tells herself, she is not going to allow this to turn her into something she is not. 

“Is there any hint of this in the press?” Diane asks, moving on.

“No. We are the only four people who know about it.”

“The four of us, and the psychopath who wants to murder me,” she smiles wryly. “All right. Thank you.” 

She stands to leave, then pauses, her hand resting on the chair. “I don't want to know the details, but I expect you all to keep me informed if anything changes – the frequency of the letters, any identifying characteristics, whatever your friend at the FBI learns.” She looks at each one of them in turn, a stern look on her face. “And _do not_ keep anything like this from me ever again, even if you think it's for my own good.”

Satisfied that they understand, she leaves, somehow both angry and grateful to them all at once. But as she walks back to her office through the main work room, a deep sense of unease takes over. Whoever is writing these letters could be right here in this building for all she knows. She tells her assistant to hold all of her calls, closing her office door behind her. There is no one she wants to see or talk to right now.

She opens her laptop, again committing to burying herself in work. There are two good reasons to focus her mind on more important matters, then. But as she scrolls through her emails, she half expects to find threatening messages there as well. She does not know if she will feel safe at home now, even with an armed guard outside. She glances at her phone – if these threats are real, she expects he will learn her phone number sooner or later.

For now, there are no messages. None at all. She is relieved, and yet disappointed. Even after this disturbing turn of events, her thoughts still flit back so easily to Kurt. 

She laughs bitterly, realizing that even if she did want to continue their bizarre affair, there is no way she could sneak in and out of his hotel room now. She would be caught in an instant, and if she managed to get away with it she would have absolutely no faith in their ability to protect her.

There is someone out there who literally wants to kill her, she realizes, and here she is still fantasizing about a man she doesn't even want to be with. She is so irritated with herself and the situation she has found herself in she could scream.

But she does not scream. She clenches and unclenches her fists, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath in and out, and she goes back to work.


	13. Chapter 13

Diane accepted the new rules she must live by without protest or complaint, but after several days of living under them she thinks they might drive her quietly insane. She is never truly alone now. There is at least one guard on her tail, every single hour. They follow her from room to room by day, all the more conspicuous for the precise distance they maintain at all times. At night they are there on the other side of her door, and she feels no greater sense of privacy just because she cannot see them. 

Sooner or later, she is convinced, someone in the media will notice and question the enhanced security – and they will either figure out the truth, or they will paint her as an out-of-touch rich liberal traveling with an entourage every time she steps outside of Hyde Park. She does not know which would be more humiliating, but she is sure Eli already has some data on how it would play.

As annoying as it is to be constantly guarded, she is never comfortable when she is alone in a room, either. At home she is always slightly on edge, jumping at every little sound. Work has become a useful distraction. Eli runs her through debate drills at night and schedules phone interviews from home – and for once, she is grateful to him for his round-the-clock work ethic. She figures he must be loving this one consequence of the situation at least. 

When she faces the fact that there is no more work to be done she watches the news even more obsessively, alert for any mention of it. It would be a huge blow to the campaign if it got out, she knows. At best, it would be a major distraction from the issues. At worst, she would be ridiculed as weak and her ability to govern would be questioned. Crazy as it is, she has more nightmares about this than about how she might be murdered.

Crazier still, she is more likely than anything to wake up with the faint memory of another encounter with Kurt in her dreams.

She is at home now, the day's work done, curled up with Justice on the couch. The news is on, but she tries not to fixate on it. She tries not to feel like a prisoner in her own home. She tries to simply relax, unwind – if she's ever known how to do that, the skill seems to be lost to her now.

She sighs when inevitably some story about Kurt McVeigh comes up. This is nothing new or surprising, but it always stings. Every day since she stormed out of his hotel room she has had to see his face, hear his voice, contain her reaction at some comment about him. It is a pleasant sort of pain to see him on her television screen now. He is dressed in his preferred flannel and sport coat look, his hair slightly disheveled. He laughs derisively when the interviewer brings up Obamacare, and she can't help but laugh along with him. There is something so charming about his ridiculousness.

_“Obamacare has been a nightmare for Illinois. Chicago's health care system is under a $67 million budget shortfall. They all said CountyCare would bring in money, but it's been running a deficit since its first month in operation and that's only going to grow. If I'm elected, I will do everything in my power to kill CountyCare, and whatever I can do to bring down Obamacare altogether, I will do.”_

She groans, muting the program. The charm is suddenly lost on her. Every time she thinks she misses him, she hears him say something like that, and it only reinforces how right she is to stay away. Even if there were no question of ethics, he would still bring her to a rage every time he opened his mouth. It was easy enough, taking a romantic stroll at night or screwing in his hotel room, but beyond that it would never work between them.

Surely he understood that every time he saw her on the news, too.

She is sure – at least she wants to believe – that he watches her this way, too. That he thinks of kissing her every time she smiles at a particularly stupid question. That he thinks of her walking away from him every time he sees her walking along in a staged interview spot. That he is simultaneously appalled and aroused every time she talks about her views. She cannot be alone in that.

But she enjoys him this way, on mute, his soft lips pronouncing nonsense she cannot hear, easily imagining herself moving a lock of his unruly hair off his forehead, those animated hands roaming her body, those lips pressed to her own.

She rolls her eyes at herself, turning off the television as his interview ends. But, then again, why shouldn't she indulge herself? It is never going to happen again. Thinking about it can't hurt.

She goes through the motions of getting ready for bed, trying to find some sense of normalcy in the routine. She admits to herself that those thoughts of Kurt are at least less destructive than the ones that would otherwise be occupying her mind. As it is, they never do leave completely. Irrationally, she does not leave the water running when she's brushing her teeth or washing her face, because she would not be able to hear if something happened. She invents a reason to enter each and every room before she goes to her bedroom, but she knows she is really only indulging her paranoia. 

She unmakes her bed, patting the mattress so Justice will join her. She's more happy than usual to have the dog curl up beside her now. Certainly she is no guard dog, but in part she is a comfort when Diane feels she would go insane if she were truly alone. More than anything, she wants to keep her close because the noises she makes out in the apartment have spooked Diane more than once. 

She gets into bed and turns out the lights, checking her phone one more time before setting it down on the nightstand. There are a lot of emails that can wait until the morning, but nothing urgent from Eli. Nothing from a crazed lunatic. And nothing from Kurt.

She closes her eyes, willing her brain to just stop for once, to just give in to the exhaustion she feels. But her thoughts continue to churn for several long minutes before she is aware of the faint light from her phone – an incoming text. 

As always now, a jolt of nerves courses through her, but she forces herself to quash it. As she reaches out for the phone, a different sort of nerves supersedes it as she realizes who it is.

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _Saw you in the Chicago Mag piece. I see why they never ask me about fashion._

She smiles, burrowing her head deeper in the pillow. She looks at the message for what she realizes is an absurd length of time with no idea what to say in response, if anything at all.

Before she can make up her mind, a second message follows.

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _You looked beautiful._

Somehow, after all this, she is still so easily astonished by his directness. It is beyond her comprehension how that could possibly strike him as an appropriate thing to say – after days of silence, no less – but she knows he would not even have considered whether it was appropriate or not.

Or perhaps he had, she muses, after her initial flare of indignation passes. Perhaps he had taken these days of silence, trying to find the right way to break it.

She waits, staring stupidly at her phone for long minutes again, waiting for another message. None comes. Finally she decides if she is going to respond at all it would be smart to sleep on it, think it through in the morning. She is not interested in playing games, but she might very well regret anything she says on a whim tonight. She has gotten herself into trouble that way with him before.

She sets the phone down, again trying to compel herself to just forget about it and go to sleep.

She has not stopped thinking about it for a moment when the screen lights up for a third time. Without even hesitating, she grabs the phone. 

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _Anyway. I think about you._

Shocked, she clicks off the phone immediately, wide awake now. He can't just say things like that. There is nothing in the world she can say in response to something like that. Certainly not the truth – that she thinks about him too.

With more certainty than before, she knows she should let it go unanswered until the morning. She should probably not respond at all. She should block him, delete him, forget she ever had his number.

But she also knows it will keep her up all night, wondering and waiting, for another, more tender message.

She turns her phone on again, staring at his stark and honest words for long moments before she types back:

> _We can't do this, Kurt._

She sends it before she can think twice, then winces, closing her eyes, setting the phone down again. She hopes her meaning is clear. She is not blaming him. They are in this together. But she cannot encourage it, either.

She waits, again hoping he will send back some sign that he understands and agrees. But she knows that he doesn't, and he will not pretend even for her benefit. She also knows he will not argue. Finally she admits to herself he is not going to text back. He may never text back again.

That is what she wants, after all.


	14. Chapter 14

_“Now this morning, reports of disturbing threats against Diane Lockhart, Democratic candidate for Governor. Channel 2 News has learned that Ms Lockhart has been receiving death threats for weeks now, handwritten diatribes on the candidate's views that end in graphic descriptions of violence. We have an exclusive copy of one of these letters to share with you – warning, what you are about to hear is deeply disturbing.”_

Eli clicks off the television in the central office of campaign headquarters, amid the protests of the dozens of volunteers who have gathered around.

“Nothing to see here, everyone, back to work!”

Diane, who has been standing in the back surveying the damage, turns to go, feeling sickened. She cannot endure their questions or their concern. Later she will owe them a fuller explanation, some reassurance, a rallying cry if she can muster it, but she is not ready for that now. 

Eli jogs to catch up with her, looking about as horrified as she feels. Neither says anything until they are safely behind the closed door of her office.

She sits, her face in one hand, massaging her forehead in frustration.

“We can contain the damage on this,” he assures her quickly, taking a seat opposite the desk. 

“You said yourself that if the press got wind of it, it would be a disaster.”

“You know me, I always exaggerate,” he tries to joke, swiping at the air dismissively. “But you need to make a statement as soon as possible – it has to be today. Cary is already drafting it. You need to take a tough stance. You need to talk about guns and you need to talk about crime. And you need to come out swinging, saying this kind of crazed rhetoric typical of the Tea Party--”

“It is _not_ typical of the Tea Party,” she interrupts.

“You're going to pin this on McVeigh's supporters. You may take a hit, but he's going down for it,” Eli continues, undaunted. “This is the perfect opportunity to marry him to these kinds of nuts. Oh, sure, he comes across as this aw-shucks, frontier America guy, but in reality the Tea Party is a lawless, bigoted group of loons, and a lot of people who found McVeigh appealing won't when they realize what kind of behavior his views promote.”

“His views do not _promote_ this kind of behavior, Eli.”

Diane's tone is quietly dangerous, but Eli misses the sign to proceed with caution.

“They create a breeding ground, then. Cary is the word guy, he's on it.”

“I don't want to see a draft of a speech tying Kurt McVeigh to this in any way,” she says, her voice rising now. “I'm not going to do it, Eli.”

They are both taken aback by how much his suggestion angers her.

Eli dials back the intensity, but continues to press his point gravely. “Diane, this is the way to make the most out of a horrible situation. This is the only way you're going to bounce back from this quickly.”

“No.” She shakes her head, crossing her arms. She has made up her mind.

“Diane, I admire you for your ethics, you know I do, but sometimes they are your worst enemy.”

“Find another way, Eli.” A new thought occurs to her, and she leans forward on her desk, livid now. “How did this happen, anyway? How did it get out?”

“Kalinda's looking into it,” he says quietly.

Her eyebrows shoot up, enraged. “Looking into it? We should have been looking into it the second the letters started, doing background checks on the people out there.”

“And she has been doing that, but nothing looked suspicious until--”

“Obviously there is somebody suspicious out there! Eli, this doesn't get out without a leak. Dismiss everyone who works with incoming mail, to start with.”

Eli forces a laugh, trying to lighten the tone. “Diane, don't you think that's a little--”

“Paranoid? Some lunatic is trying to kill me so, no, I don't think that counts as paranoid.”

She is in no mood to be handled or patronized. 

He tries another tack, reasoning with her, his voice measured. “All I'm saying is you're quick to save Kurt McVeigh's hide, but you're perfectly willing to throw out half of your campaign staff?”

The comment about Kurt makes her check herself. She takes a deep breath, trying to convey how she feels without sounding hysterical – or, indeed, paranoid.

“I don't feel safe out there as it is, Eli. We have no real screening process before we accept volunteers. I don't want to think this could be any one of them, but I do, every day I walk into this office. And now that we know one of them is at least capable of this—”

“I know. I know.” He smiles back at her reassuringly. “Look, Kalinda is on it. None of us are going to let anything happen to you.”

She sighs, trying to accept that that is the best he can offer her for now. “All right.”

“And in the meantime, you need to trust me to do what is best for you politically.”

He pauses, letting this sink in. She considers his words, her gaze falling on her cell phone, her only slim connection to Kurt now. It has been quiet since the other night.

“I'm not going to denounce him, Eli. I'm not going to suggest that he is anything like this maniac. I'm not going to say his views promote violence and hate.” She takes a deep breath, thinking this through carefully. “But if you need me to take a stand, I will call this person a McVeigh supporter, and I will call on him to publicly denounce the behavior.”

“That's more like it,” Eli grins, standing, ready to launch into action. “I'll talk to Cary.”

She frowns, staring down at the phone again. She is tempted to give him some warning, some cover. But the campaign is her priority, she reminds herself, her only priority. She is not going to start giving tips to the opposition. And that is all he can be. 

 

.....................

 

Diane makes it through the press conference, feeling as if she is on autopilot. She gives her short statement from memory with a practiced lightness, her manner resolute but self-deprecating. She pivots quickly away from her situation and back to the issues, calling for further debate on concealed carry proposals. Although she feels almost numb to it, she knows she is selling the message to the room, to the viewer at home. And Eli is there at her side, his expression vacant but inwardly gloating, she knows.

She recites it all fluently, faultlessly, until she gets to the line about Kurt McVeigh. She hesitates for a moment then, debating herself. And she skips over it, moving smoothly to her next point.

She can practically feel Eli fuming as she concludes without any mention of her opponent, moving on to take questions. She had expected no less, but she is still galled when inevitably every reporter she calls upon turns back to the grisly details of the letters, the implications for her personal life. She deflects the questions with quick, good-natured responses, suppressing the urge to rage at their typical focus on the sensationalist, intimate slant that will draw in viewers and sell newspapers.

She can sense Eli's growing frustration as he waits for one of them to arrive at the Tea Party angle on their own, none of them following the path of his logic. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him pull his phone out of his pocket, texting. A moment later, in the back of the room, Cary looks at his phone, then whispers something in a reporter's ear. She knows exactly what they are doing, and she doesn't like it one bit.

“Sorry, that's all the time I have,” she says abruptly. “Thank you for your questions, and thank you for your concern.”

Eli steps forward, guiding her back to the podium. “Actually, we have time for just one more – Karen?”

The reporter Cary addressed stands. “Ms Lockhart, do you feel these threats are emblematic of Tea Party philosophy run amok, and if so does Kurt McVeigh have a responsibility to speak for his supporters?”

Diane casts a sideways glance at Eli – he will pay for this later. But he has cornered her now, likely having calculated that it is worth incurring her wrath.

“I think that, yes, some of the ideas – if you can call them that – are an extreme and perverse extension of Tea Party positions. I would hazard to guess that if this individual is engaged enough to vote, then he would find the candidate closest to his ideology to be Mr McVeigh. But Kurt McVeigh is not responsible for his supporters' views, the way they express them, or the actions they take in support of them. Nor would he condone them.” 

She glances at Eli again, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before giving in just an inch to his intention. 

“And I would call on him to join me in condemning them, just as I would if our roles were reversed. That's all.”

Amid a last barrage of camera flashes, she strides away from the dais and out of the room. Eli catches up with her, snapping as soon as they are out of anyone's earshot, “Of course, your roles would never be reversed because none of your supporters are that batshit crazy--”

“You don't think there are lunatics and extremists in the Democratic party?” she snaps back.

Eli ignores her question, bringing her back to the point he intends to make. “You didn't come on strong enough.”

“I said what I wanted to say, Eli.”

“Why did you back down?”

She stops in her tracks, turning to face him, refusing to acknowledge the question.

“This is the ladies' restroom you're about to join me in, Eli.”

He rolls his eyes in frustration. “Fine. I'll be waiting right here to ask you again.”

“Can you just wait for me out there,” she gestures wildly at the lobby just down the hall, her pent-up anger threatening to boil over. She turns to the guard standing with maddening detachment two feet away, adding, “You go, too – for God's sake you need to go through a metal detector to get in here, can you just give me a little space?”

Eli, sensing he has pushed her enough for now, nods and signals for the agent to follow him down the hall. 

Diane enters the restroom, finding it empty. She only needs a moment of peace, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply. The press conference went as well as she could have expected it to, but it pushed her to the limits of her patience. If this is the way things are going to be until the situation is resolved, she is not sure she will emerge with her sanity intact.

By the time another woman enters the room, Diane has calmed somewhat – enough. She raises herself to her full height again, striding back out into the hall, ready to go to battle with Eli again.

As she opens the door she almost walks straight into – not Eli, not her guard, but, she is stunned to realize, Kurt McVeigh.

“Oh!” She lets out a little cry, momentarily too surprised to think of anything else to say.

“I'm sorry – I didn't want to startle you.” 

She shakes her head, moved by his appearance here in spite of herself. He is looking back at her with a mixture of concern, confusion and embarrassment, not quite able to look her in the eye. She tries to suppress the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth. 

“Kurt, what--?”

“I just saw it on the news, I knew you were here, doing the press conference...” He trails off, looking sheepish as he admits it out loud.

“There are dozens of reporters here right now, Kurt, and I have to get back--” But she doesn't move to go. Somehow she feels more calm standing here with him than she has since this whole thing started, and she doesn't want to give that up so easily.

“I know I shouldn't be here,” he says quietly. “But I was worried about you.”

She looks back at him sadly. “There's nothing you can do.”

She tries to remain aware of anyone else entering the hallway, careful to maintain what might pass for a professional distance. But she keeps feeling herself drifting closer to him. 

“I think you just called on me to do something in there,” he points out, venturing a teasing smile.

“I'm sorry about that – Eli wanted me to take a harder line...” She shakes her head, becoming angry about it again. “But it's stupid, it has nothing to do with you. I don't really believe that.”

He shrugs. “It's politics, I get it.”

“Kurt there's nothing...” She can't bring herself to complete the thought. _There's nothing you can do. For me. With me. There's nothing for us to do now._

“I get it. I do.”

For the first time, she believes he really does understand, and the sight of him resigned to it turns out to be much harder to bear than the frustration of his fighting it. 

“I can't,” she whispers, while drawing irresistibly nearer to him again. “I'm sorry, I want to... but I can't.”

He nods, pulling back. “I know.”

He locks eyes with her at last, a long searching look as if trying to communicate that he does, he really does know; and it's all she can do to remember who and where they are and not pull him against her now, to make herself forget that his kiss could make this all momentarily better, at least until it made it much, much worse.

Sensing perhaps that he needs to be the strong one this time, he smiles sadly, looks down, and walks away.


	15. Chapter 15

Diane glances at the time. She has five minutes to kill in between a morning of tiresome thank you calls to high-ticket donors and a senior staff meeting in which she expects to receive no good news. Through it all, she has to suffer a security agent just outside the door or two feet behind her, conscious every minute that someone out there would like to see her dead. Yes... she could probably allow herself a quick indulgence now. 

She clicks back to her internet browser, where the video interview she has already watched three times is still up. Shaking her head but not really feeling ashamed, she unpauses it.

_“You have, of course, heard about the threats of violence against your Democratic rival, Diane Lockhart.”_

_“I have.”_

_“Her campaign has called for you to respond to the threats personally. Do you have anything to say on the matter?”_

_“Well, obviously I am deeply disturbed by the letters. I think they are the work of a deranged and cowardly individual. And I would absolutely condemn this behavior.”_

_“It has been suggested that the views expressed in these letters are the views of a McVeigh supporter.”_

_“I don't see my views in those letters, no. I don't speak for the entire Tea Party. And I certainly don't speak for anyone who finds Diane Lockhart to be anything but a lovely person.”_

It is his lopsided grin as much as his words that do her in, and she can feel herself returning it in kind, even now, on the fourth viewing. She forces herself to close out of the video – no, not ashamed about it at all, but half wishing she could find it in herself to be. 

Sighing, she stands and heads for the door – finding it did give her the little boost she needed to face the nonsense ahead.

She has a rotating team of guards, nearly all of whom still seem relatively interchangeable to her. Most at least make an attempt to stay out of her way, although she is all the more aware of them for that, sticking to her like a shadow. But when she leaves her office this morning, it is flirtatious and jocular Jack Copeland who falls into step at her side, rather than the usual two feet behind. 

“Good morning, Ms Lockhart,” he greets her. Somehow the most innocuous phrases sound like a tease in his charming Australian accent.

“Jack,” she smiles back. She isn't always inclined to banter with him, but now she is in a good mood. “Taking a break from the night shift?”

“No, I was lucky enough to pull double duty today! I'm with you now, and all night long.” He lowers his voice meaningfully. “You won't see me when you wake up in the morning, though; not my style.”

She shakes her head, laughing. His overly familiar manner is irritating sometimes, but he does at least make her forget she is a target for a moment. And in his strange way, he is rather charming. If things were different, she could imagine calling his bluff. If he were not her bodyguard.

If she were not so hung up on Kurt McVeigh.

She looks down at her phone as they walk, bringing up her last text conversation with him. If Jack is still rambling on now, she barely hears him. She is preoccupied with reviewing her last words of rejection, remembering his sad face the last time they talked. And after all that, he was still so kind in his interview.

Biting her lip slightly, she appends to the hurtful words that came before:

> _I saw your interview. Thank you._

She feels better having said it. The last thing she wants to do is jerk him back and forth, but, she figures, there is no reason why she should not maintain at least a level of civility. 

Jack gestures at the door broadly. “Here you are, my lady, I have safely delivered you to Conference Room 1A.”

She rolls her eyes but flashes him a quick smirk in response. As she strides into the room, her expression quickly hardens.

“All right, someone, please put a positive spin on this week.” 

She sits at the table, looking from one to the other expectantly. Her phone buzzes, breaking her concentration for a moment. She glances down at it quickly.

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _You're welcome._  
> 

Allowing herself a small smile, she sets the phone down. When she looks up, her face is all business again. They all seem to to be searching for something to say. 

Eli casts a line first. “Did you see McVeigh's interview?”

“I did.” _Four times._ She fights back the urge to smile again.

“It's amazing,” Cary leans forward, gloating. “It looks like he did it only because you forced his hand.”

Diane scowls. “He would have done it either way.”

“And if he had, unprompted, he would have won some points for sincerity,” Eli counters, looking as gleeful as Cary. “But now it looks like he had no choice but to say something.”

“Now Howard Lyman is jumping on it, did you see his new ad?” Cary laughs. “They're using what little you did say about McVeigh as the voiceover on a montage of violent demonstrations – most of which have nothing to do with the Tea Party, but it looks bad – and then there's this shadowy image of McVeigh superimposed over it, looking terrifying. It's great.”

“I don't know why I was worried about Canning and Lee, they just do the work for us,” Eli grins. “If you don't want to do something dirty, Diane, I'll just slip the idea to them from now on.”

“Yeah, just let Lyman and McVeigh rip each other to pieces.”

“I don't think it goes both ways,” Diane points out quietly. “Has McVeigh ever released an attack ad?”

“No, I think he has some weird ethical hang-up,” Eli says, making a face. “He's worse than you.”

Diane rolls her eyes and lets the two of them get it out of their system, laughing about her opponents. She picks up her phone again, feeling guilty to realize he is being dragged deeper into a situation that has nothing to do with him.

> _I'm sorry Lyman is using my statement the other day against you._

A moment later, his brief reply pops up:

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _No problem._  
> 

“He's going to have to learn to respond to the attacks at least if he wants to stay alive,” Eli says, making a dismissive gesture. 

“Right, he thinks he can just rise above it. He has no idea.”

“He's like you, when you started, Diane,” Eli laughs. “Luckily I turned you around.”

“Yeah, but Kurt has a bunch of college girls running his campaign.”

“Which Lyman also never fails to notice. He brings it up ever chance he gets.”

Diane scowls and looks over at Kalinda. “Do they even need us here?”

She looks up from her laptop, shooting a sideways smile back at Diane. “That's why I bring this.”

“Do you have anything for me?”

“Nothing definite. I've completed background checks on everyone working on the campaign. I'm ruling out a couple volunteers.”

Diane feels her anger flare up. “Well, while you rule them out, I hope you've told them not to come back?”

“Diane, we need to tread carefully here,” Eli says. “We don't want the story to be that we're conducting a witchhunt. There's nothing to stop them from talking to the press about why and how they were let go.”

“Do you have any idea how powerless I feel?” She leans back in her chair, shaking her head. But she quickly pulls herself together again, resigned to the business at hand. “So Lyman is using it against McVeigh. Is he using it against me?”

“Yes...” Cary ventures. “It's become a regular part of his stump speech – you're too liberal, you attract this kind of behavior, you'll be distracted by it, you'll be weak...”

“They're seeing how well it plays in front of friendly crowds before he pulls it out in the debate. So we'll prep for that.”

“Lovely. And how big a hit have we taken in the polls?”

Again no one seems eager to speak up.

Eli finally clears his throat. “Our internals are more up to date than the news outlets. They're also a lot worse.”

“Almost ten percent of voters are saying they're undecided now, so nothing is very predictable anymore. But we're showing you at 40, Lyman 31, McVeigh 21.”

Her eyes go wide – she knew there would be a dip, but she didn't expect a nosedive. “They're both draining my support.”

“In a three-person race, you still have a formidable lead, Diane. They don't have a lot of room to move.”

She shakes her head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “You said let them kill each other, but in reality they're both killing me.”

Eli goes suddenly stern. “Diane, this is where I need you to trust me, get down off your ethical high horse once and for all, and let me run your campaign.”

Diane starts to protest but stops herself, considering it for a moment. She is starting to feel genuinely imperiled. “What do I need to do?”

“You get out there and you take a harder line on guns, abortion access. Less policy, more emotion. And we're going to put out attack ads against both of them.”

“Commission them. And then I'll make up my mind.”

“Diane--”

“I'll look at them, Eli,” she says, adamant. She looks around the room one last time. “Does anyone have any good news?”

Barely waiting for them to respond, she rises and walks out of the room. In her frustration, she flicks her phone on again, typing:

> _Do you hate politics as much as I do?_

“You need to wait up for me, you know!” 

Diane groans as Jack bounds into step beside her again. Sometimes he charms her, and sometimes he gets on her very last nerve.

“It's not really necessary to follow me just down that hall, is it?”

“I appreciate it if you think of me as the cool guard, Diane! But yes, it is absolutely necessary.”

She sighs.

“You thought you'd get away with something with me, eh?” he teases her.

“I thought I'd try,” she replies, practically gritting her teeth.

“Well, I can be rather a rule-breaker, but not in this regard.”

When she gets back to her office, she takes the childish satisfaction of slamming the door shut.

Her phone vibrates, then, and his one-word reply is almost enough to soothe her frayed nerves.

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _Yep._  
> 

It feels as if everything and everyone is conspiring to drive her slowly insane, but at least there is one person in this world who knows exactly how she feels. She sinks down into her chair, closing her eyes, allowing herself to indulge in this for just five minutes more. 

 

…..............

 

At the end of the day, before Diane can be left alone in her apartment, the night guard checks each room. It's at moments like this when she does appreciate Jack, who has a way of looking around casually as if he is thinking of buying the place. She will gladly withstand one more exhausting exchange with him, just so she doesn't have to witness the way the other agents act as if they expect to find an intruder behind every door. She knows he takes his job equally seriously, but he tries to put her at ease while he goes about it, in his way.

“Okay, you're all clear,” Jack breaks out into a grin as he comes back into her living room. “I'll be right outside – unless you want to invite me to stay.”

“Thank you,” she smiles back thinly. “I'm good.”

“I'm sure it must get rather lonely, locked up like this every night.”

“I'm actually seeing someone,” she replies without even thinking, her eyes going a little wide when she hears herself. She has never invented a boyfriend to rebuff another man in her life, and she realizes she hasn't started now, either.

“So am I, in point of fact! Well, all right, then.” He starts to leave for the door, then turns around abruptly. “I haven't noticed anyone.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, I stand outside your door all night, five nights per week, in Chicago, on the road. And unless your beau is climbing up the fire escape...”

“Mr Copeland,” she breaks in, a warning edge to her voice.

“I don't create that impression, I know, but I can be discreet, if you want to--”

She shakes her head, interrupting him again. “I appreciate your offer, bizarre and inappropriate as it may be. But that won't be necessary.”

“I know what you're thinking. In your line of work anyone can be bought for the right price. Not me. I'll keep your secret.”

“I'm sure I could trust you if I needed to. But you won't be seeing him here. For other reasons.”

He raises his eyebrows, but presses no further. “Fair enough. Well. Good night, Ms Lockhart.”

“Good night.”

For once, she is relieved when she is finally alone in her apartment. 

Exhausted, she skips most of the usual nightly rituals and heads straight for bed. Thanks to Jack's prying, she can't think of anything but Kurt now. Perhaps she would have anyway. But it's nice to have someone else to blame for it.

She flicks through their earlier text conversation, if it can even be called that. Somehow, shooting him a message now and then was soothing at the time, a lifeline to a confederate. It is clearer to her now that he was giving the only most terse and vacant responses, the bare minimum of politeness. And why should he offer her any more, after all that had happened between them? 

She pulls up the covers and turns off the light, loyal Justice already curled up at her feet. She feels like she has tried so many ways of dealing with him, and none of them have worked out very well at all. But still... she can't just leave him be.

She is reading over his messages yet again, lying there in bed, when the appearance of a new message almost makes her jump.

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _How are you doing?_  
> 

She laughs to herself, almost giddy. She feels as she did earlier in the day – she should be ashamed, but she isn't. His words are still terse, but he initiated it. That's just the way he is, she should know that by now. She types back:

> _I'm fine. How are you?_

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _I mean with the threats._  
> 

She smiles, sliding down against her pillow.

> _If you're asking as my opponent, that's a campaign secret._

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _Then I'm not asking as your opponent.  
>  Just Kurt._  
> 

She shakes her head, smiling to herself. _My Kurt?_ She does not ask this. Painfully aware she is taking much too long to form a very simple response, she simply types:

> _I'm doing okay._

> Kurt McVeigh  
>  _I'm glad._  
>  _Take care of yourself, Diane._  
>  _Good night._  
> 

She scrambles to think of something more to say, but she can't find any way to extend the conversation. Grudgingly, she writes back:

> _Good night, Kurt._

As she sets the phone down on her nightstand, she still has no idea what to make of him. But she knows she enjoys this, whatever it is. 

She laughs to herself as she remembers what Eli keeps saying about her ethics – what would he say about this?

She doesn't torment herself with it this time, and she doesn't take long to think about it at all. For the first time in a long time, Diane drifts off quickly to a good night's sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

“All right. Say it one more time.”

Eli stands in front of her, his eyes intensely focused, his hands on her shoulders like a boxing coach.

Diane rolls her eyes. They have been over it and over it, but she knows this is part of the drill. She has lost count of how many debates she has participated in over the years with Eli at her side, but he always has one last pep talk to give to keep her from retreating too far into her own head. 

“Say it,” he insists.

“Champion. Emotion.”

“After fifty hours of debate prep those are the only two words you need to remember. Champion. You're top dog. Let them nip at your heels and tear each other apart. Emotion. Just enough policy to be credible, play to the voters' emotions.”

She nods resolutely, and Eli must like what he sees in her eyes, because he stands aside, arms folded, smiling to himself. He likes to back a winner, and so far she has never let him down.

And she does feel ready, eager to fight. Diane stands in the wings of the stage, waiting for her cue. The lights are up, the audience is buzzing, and she knows her talking points backwards and forwards. These are the moments in the campaign she lives for, and she does feel like a champion.

From here, she can hear the night's moderator, Claire Wylie from the Chicago Tribune, announcing the terms of the debate. Out of sight, concealed by the curtains, she knows Howard Lyman and Kurt McVeigh are going through their final rituals, too, and she's itching to confront them both at last. She can easily imagine how a prizefighter feels, poised to spring into action, toying with her challengers, waiting for the opportunity to knock them out with one well-timed blow.

Claire Wylie's final words resonate through the hall: “The audience will refrain from making noise of any kind, with one exception now as we welcome to our first Gubernatorial debate Democratic candidate Diane Lockhart, Republican candidate Howard Lyman, and Independent Kurt McVeigh.”

“Go kick ass!” Eli hisses in one final word of encouragement, and she slips him a little high five before she goes.

Diane strides onto the stage, beaming and waving to the crowd, making sure to address each section of the audience before she turns her attention to either of her opponents. Howard Lyman ambles toward her first, accepting her offered hand and turning his back squarely against Kurt, in a transparent move to block him from the pleasantries entirely. 

Howard leans forward, whispering, “What do you say, let's throw this guy out of the race once and for all?”

She pulls back, surprised but refusing to show it. She cannot tell whether he is being his usual half-senile, impertinent self, or if this is a strategy that his managers actually planted in his mind. “I won't need any help to do that,” she grins back, breaking away. 

She brushes past him to Kurt, shaking his hand firmly. Her smile remains fixed in place, but again she feels slightly unsettled underneath it. She had managed to put it out of her mind as she psyched herself up for the debate, but now that she is confronted with him she is keenly aware that this is the first time they have touched since she was in his bed. 

He returns the greeting, going through the motions admirably, but he looks a little lost. Whether it's a reaction to her or to the newness of the experience, she can't be sure. She looks back at him encouragingly, grasping his arm with her other hand. It is a practiced gesture, the same one she used on Lyman, but her hand lingers perhaps a little longer than necessary, squeezing him. Her intention is to reassure him – perhaps the fighter in her wants to stand him up before she knocks him down – but he looks all the more bewildered by her touch.

She forces herself to let go, turning to walk toward her podium on the right side of the stage. She notices the two men exchange only the briefest handshake before moving to their own places, Howard Lyman making an exaggerated shrugging gesture as he moves away from Kurt. Kurt, for his part, still looks a little dazed as he moves to his own podium. If it has anything to do with her – she realizes she can use it to her advantage.

It's a dirty trick, but after all, all's fair in love and war.

When the three candidates are in place, Claire Wylie folds her hands on the table, seated in front of them. “As agreed to by each of your campaigns, we will rotate questions directed to each of you in turn. You will each have sixty seconds to respond, and then there will be up to two minutes of open debate before we proceed to the next question. Ms Lockhart, to you first, in poll after poll we hear that the concern foremost on most voters' minds is jobs. What would you do to improve the employment outlook?”

“The foundation of our economy needs to be an investment in people and an investment in education,” she begins, her voice clear and strong. She makes a point of looking audience members in the eye as she speaks, her face warm and credible. She knows she looks the part of a leader, a champion – especially compared to either of the men standing next to her.

She grows increasingly confident as she continues. “My top priority as governor will be to increase funding for education, job retraining programs, and strengthen the clean-energy jobs sector, where Illinois has been a leader and should continue to be a leader.” She hears Eli's voice in her head: _less policy, more emotion_. “That's how we're going to get more people back to work, transition to higher-paying jobs that have a future in this economy, and stop the wage stagnation and backsliding the middle class has been facing for years.”

She glances sideways as she concludes and realizes Kurt has been staring at her, a little smile on his lips, something like admiration in his eyes. She looks away again, careful not to react. Inwardly, she is gloating.

“And Mr Lyman, where do you stand on this issue?”

Howard looks confused for a moment, then asks, “Yeah, I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?”

“Jobs, how would your policies improve the jobs situation?”

“Well, first of all, I would like to say that you are looking lovely tonight, Claire,” he says, winking at the moderator. 

Diane thinks he is either stalling for time or he must be losing his last few marbles right here on stage. 

He clears his throat. “Jobs. The answer to jobs is growth. We need economic growth. We need to grow business, help small business owners grow and restore prosperity.”

It takes all of Diane's self-control to not roll her eyes, mentally ticking off how many times uses the word 'grow' in sixty seconds. At the end of his response he has not actually said anything, uttering a string of empty phrases and sounding like he is straining to remember items on a cue card.

“And Mr McVeigh?”

“Jobs are moving out of state, that's the simple fact. We don't have to worry about losing Illinois-based companies overseas, when just across the state line worker's compensation claims cost companies five times less in Indiana than here in Illinois.” Kurt seems uncomfortable at first, shifting in place slightly as he begins, but gradually his passion masters his nerves. “Forty thousand manufacturing jobs have been lost, and Diane Lockhart's plan isn't going to bring them back. And if we can turn to open debate now, I'd like to hear from her how she intends to pay for the education initiatives and retraining programs she so passionately advocates for.”

Diane's eyebrows go up – he is better at this than he looks. She wasn't expecting so direct an attack, either, but she finds herself electrified by it. “My plan calls for a modest increase to the income taxes of millionaires, revenue that will go directly to public schools --”

“That's what Democrats always say,” Kurt scoffs. “Raise the money from rich villains, send it to poor schools. Except the money doesn't end up going to school funding a lot of the time. It's an excuse to raise taxes, build up government coffers--”

Diane leans forward on her podium, looking for the opportunity to get a word in edgewise. She notices his voice hitch, momentarily losing his train of thought as he looks over at her.

She seizes the chance to break in. “Actually, I do think millionaires and billionaires have a duty and a responsibility to pay a little bit more toward the good of society. And my opponent's plan would actually slash education funding by four billion dollars. His rhetoric about individual achievement and lack of government intervention is all well and good until you realize that it means one in six teachers would lose their jobs,” she leans deeper, glaring sideways at him, her fist hitting the podium for emphasis, “ _one in six_.”

“Actually – um,” he looks away from her, down again at his podium, running a hand through his hair, forgetting his response.

Claire doesn't wait for him to catch up. “Mr Lyman, do you have anything to add on this issue?”

“No, I'm good. I'll take the next question.”

In a display of consummate professionalism, the moderator moves on to the next question without betraying any reaction. “In a similar vein, there have been proposals to raise the state minimum wage to ten or eleven dollars an hour. Where do you stand on an increase to the minimum wage?”

Lyman clears his throat again, staring off into space for uncomfortable seconds. He looks as if he is cycling through a mental file of possible responses before landing on the right one. “I would say to anyone who wants to improve their lives and move up in society, I would encourage them to, you know, go out there and get yourself a better job.”

Diane resists the urge to sigh heavily, reminding herself that the only thing for her to do here is to stand back and watch him implode. As he continues to ramble on with empty platitudes about the value of hard work and prosperity for all who want it, she glances over at Kurt who looks like he is trying just as hard to contain his scorn. She flashes him the briefest smile, inconspicuous to anyone else but communicating that she knows what he is thinking. As much as she despises his ideas, she will grant that he has them, as opposed to Howard Lyman who is a gasbag in an expensive suit. She would have liked to continue sparring with him one on one, without these inane interruptions. It's much more exciting to go up against someone who she considers her equal. 

“Ms Lockhart, how would you respond?”

Diane pushes herself up from the podium, running a hand slowly through her hair. She can feel he is still watching her closely, and as she glances over, she notes that the brief exposure of her bare neck had the intended effect. He is staring, quite openly, a look that the viewer may not recognize as lust, but the effect of it will be evident enough. 

A shiver courses through her. This is foreplay, in front of hundreds of thousands of people.

She directs her gaze back to the audience. “Raising the minimum wage is one of the best and fastest ways we can boost the economy. 70 percent of the economy is consumer spending. An increase to the minimum wage will help over a million hard-working people hardest hit by the recession bounce back, stop having to live paycheck to paycheck, at the same time pumping billions back into the Illinois economy. Frankly, it's a no-brainer, and I can't see why my opponent fails to see that.”

Kurt laughs in response, shaking his head. “That's the kind of liberal rhetoric that appeals to people's emotions, but it's just not based in fact, Ms Lockhart.”

Diane raises herself up a little in indignation, provoked at the direct accusation – and at being called out on the emotional appeal.

“In my view, the government shouldn't be legislating anyone's wages. But if we create a climate of reforms that are friendlier to business owners, wages will naturally increase.”

“Really?” she challenges him, her voice dripping with disdain. 

“Yes,” he replies, with equal condescension.

“What support do you have for that idea when the real value of the minimum wage has dropped by more than a third since the 1960s?”

“I would say that the corruption rooted in both Democratic and Republican-controlled governments has never created the right environment, but my administration would take those steps.”

“Of course,” she laughs. She knows she is rising to his bait instead of letting his crazy ideas speak for themselves, but she can't help it.

The moderator steps in. “Let me stop you both there, I can't just let you two go at it all night. Mr Lyman, do you have anything to add before we move on?”

Howard nods eagerly, going off on a tangent as if he has not followed a word of their conversation. “I think it comes down to character. And family values. I've been married to my Millie for forty-eight years. Forty-eight years! You're married, too, aren't you Mrs, um--” he struggles to remember the moderator's name, who stares back at him stonily. “Yeah. These two, they're not married. McVeigh here goes around with a lot of pretty young girls on his arm. I like pretty girls as much as the next fella, but I keep that to myself. I'll leave it to the voters to make up their minds about that.”

“You didn't answer the question, Mr Lyman,” Diane says, a hint of derision in her tone.

“Yeah. That's what I thought,” he looks back at her smugly, as if he has won an argument.

As the debate continues, Howard Lyman becomes more and more disengaged, while the exchanges between Diane and Kurt become increasingly heated. She is aware the whole time of how he is looking at her, half in wonder and half in longing, but he has learned to channel his frustration into passionately arguing his points. She realizes she is no longer able to easily distract him, and he is meeting every one of her attacks and defenses until the moderator calls time. She is shocked by how good he is at this – angered – and not just a little excited. 

“Now our last question of the night. What is your response to calls in the legislature for greater restrictions on abortion clinics and tighter regulations around access to abortions?”

“Women's choices about their health, livelihood, and their own bodies is under threat. We lost the fight to protect the privacy and freedom of young women – Illinois now requires clinics to notify parents at least 48 hours before a procedure. Required and necessary health inspections of facilities have been neglected, and clinics have been forced to close. Women in rural counties now have to drive farther and farther for the medical care they need, forcing them to make impossible decisions between incurring financial hardship and putting their health at risk. I will invest the money needed to support women's health and the political capital needed to protect their right to it.”

“Mr Lyman?”

Howard shakes his head dramatically, his voice going sad and distant. “What ever happened to family values? I'll restore family values, I'll tell you that much.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” the moderator prompts him.

“All of them, I'll restore all of them,” he says, again looking pleased at having made an excellent point.

“Okay. And finally, Mr McVeigh.”

“Democrats used to stand for 'safe, legal and rare' abortions. Now they stand for unfettered, unrestricted access. In my view, some commonsense regulations--”

Diane shakes her head in disbelief, her anger boiling over. “He's not for government regulation, until it has to do with women's bodies.”

The moderator tries to jump in. “Ms Lockhart, you'll have a chance to respond--”

She knows she is out of line, but she can't stop herself from cutting in. “My opponent would rather women seek backalley abortions--”

Kurt looks across the stage at her, addressing her directly, speaking calmly but directly. “The murder of 1.2 million – that's more babies aborted than jobs created in this country each year, and Diane Lockhart would--”

“That is a completely immaterial comparison!” She laughs at the absurdity of it.

“Is it? You talk a lot about investing in the future to improve the economy, but 1.2 million lives are completely immaterial?”

“Ms Lockhart, Mr McVeigh, I'm going to have to stop you there--” Claire attempts to rein it in.

“No, just a minute--” Diane interrupts her, raising her hand.

“ _Ms Lockhart_ , I'm sorry but we are out of time,” Claire asserts, trying to force a smile as she brings the proceedings to a close. “Well, that was a spirited debate. Thank you to all three of you, and we will see you back in three weeks time for our second of three debates.”

As the music swells and the cameras zoom out, Diane fixes a smile on her face again and waves to the audience. She feels painfully that that was the wrong note to end the debate on, but she just couldn't hold herself back – he gets right under her skin. 

Howard Lyman's wife, children and grandchildren pour onto the stage, and soon they are lost in a sea of his extended family. She notes that Kurt does not seem to have any family to join him for this ritual, and neither does she. They are expected to stay on stage and shake hands with all of them, smile and make small talk for five minutes before retreating to their separate corners again. But she knows the televised broadcast has turned off by now, and she can't stand to put on a show for a moment longer – she is much too keyed up now. 

She catches Kurt's eye for a second, then walks directly off stage. She waits there, her heart pounding but certain he will follow, and when he does a few seconds later, she grabs him, dragging him into the darkness between the curtains. Before he can register what has happened, her lips are hard on his, her hands in his hair, holding him there. He hesitates for a moment but quickly catches up with her, grabbing her hips with both hands, hungrily returning her kisses. 

She pulls away just as abruptly, pushing him back in the same movement, but she holds onto his suit jacket, the fabric clutched between her fingers. He lets his hands fall dumbly to his sides, unsure what else to do now.

“Is this a regular thing, pulling your opponents into the wings after a debate?”

“You drive me crazy,” she whispers, her voice thick with fury and desire.

“ _You_ drive _me_ crazy,” he agrees, equally exasperated.

It is clear they both mean it in both senses of the word.

“We can't stay here,” she says, pulling further away, suddenly feeling how exposed they are. 

“I know.”

She considers their options – which are few and uniformly insane, but, she thinks, nothing would make her more insane right now than not being alone with him at all.

“If you want to see me, wait in the hallway on the east side of the building in five minutes.”

Without waiting for a response, she lets go of him and turns and walks backstage again. 

Eli catches sight of her immediately, practically stalking toward her but careful to lower his voice before accusing her, “You fell apart out there at the end!”

“Not now, Eli.” Her face is cold as she continues walking. 

“What do you mean, not now?”

“I mean we'll regroup in the morning, I'm tired and I'm not going to go one more round with you now.”

“Wait a minute–”

She ignores him, walking straight into the lobby where a crowd of reporters are waiting, as she expected. Cameras are snapping all around her, microphones shoved in her face. 

“Ms Lockhart, how would you say tonight went? Did you win the debate, in your view?”

She smiles and answers calmly, although her emotions are roiling. “I never like the concept of 'winning' or 'losing' a debate. I went out there tonight and told the people of Illinois what I stand for, that I'm here to fight for them, and that's what I did and I hope that's what the people heard.”

She turns to Eli, “I'm going to the restroom. You stay here, and spin.”

He looks at her dubiously, but reporters are closing in on him with questions and he does what he does best, going into post-match analysis, tallying the points for his fighter and arguing it a knock-out.

She only has this security agent to shake now. Part of her wishes it was Jack tonight and part of her is relieved it isn't, because he would either figure out her intention or insinuate the same.

She walks toward the hall and sees Kurt is there, at the opposite end, shaking hands and chatting with supporters but clearly keeping an eye out for her. For a moment she worries he is being too obvious, but she laughs it off. No one in this building – not even a single investigative reporter or the best opposition researcher – could possibly imagine he is waiting for the sign to slip away with her.

“Stop,” Diane says suddenly, turning around to face the bodyguard.

“Ma'am?” he questions.

“Stop here. I'm going to the ladies' room and you have a clear line of sight--”

“Ma'am, I don't. There are too many people milling about.”

“You can stop here, or you can lose your job in the morning. Choose.”

“Ma'am, I'm sorry but that's not the way it works.”

“You don't think so? Try me.” She turns and walks down the hall, confident he is not following, confident that, in the still-milling crowd, he can't be sure whether she has gone into the restroom or the supply room immediately next to it. Confident that Kurt has seen.

She has been in the room thirty seconds before he joins her, locking the door behind him.

Taking him by surprise, she pushes him against the door this time, taking all her pent-up anger out on him again, resuming their embrace right where she broke it. 

“Diane--” he manages between furious kisses, sloppily returned. “What exactly-- is this--?”

“I have ten minutes, maybe,” she says huskily, reaching for his belt. “Do you really want to ask questions?”

He groans, honestly conflicted about it. But he doesn't stop her hands, one slipping under layers of clothing to stroke him, delighted to feel him rapidly hardening under her touch.

“Were you thinking about this the whole time?” she whispers, nuzzling kisses across his face and jaw, her other hand running over his chest and side, although she doesn't bother about removing any more clothing.

“Yeah,” he breathes against her skin.

He kisses her forehead, her hairline, frustrated, she knows, that she will not let him have more access for the moment. He unbuttons her jacket, his hands desperate to make some contact with her, tracing the contours of her breasts. She presses herself against his hands, wishing they had more time, wanting him to linger over every inch of her body.

“You're good,” she whispers, raising her lips to his again.

“Are we--” he kisses her back, momentarily confused and distracted by her ministrations. “Are we talking about the debate-- or?”

“Yes,” she laughs. “But this, too.”

“You thought I wouldn't be,” he laughs back.

“You were distracted at first.”

“ _You_ were distracting me.”

“Yep,” she responds, deliberately imitating him, covering his mouth with kisses again before he can protest.

“You can't lean on your podium like that when I'm trying to talk about pension reform,” he says in mock indignation. “It's not fair.”

Smiling playfully, she removes her hand from his now fully hard cock, causing him to let out a low groan of need. She walks a few feet away to a filing cabinet, bracing herself against it. She looks over her shoulder back at him. 

“God,” he whispers. He is behind her in an instant, his hands on her hips, his lips pressed to her neck. “Yeah, this is pretty much what I was imagining.”

“Come on,” she urges him, arching her back and pressing back against him. 

Any lingering hesitation he felt is gone then. They both wish they could go slower, anywhere more comfortable than here, but this is what they have now and it's better than nothing – nothing, which they've lived with agonizingly since the last time, was never going to last, that much is clear now.

He slides her skirt up over her hips, pulling her stocking and panties down in one motion. He lets his own pants fall, pushing his boxers down, and in a moment she can feel him, hard against her. 

There is nothing left to say now that she can say – _I missed you, I missed this, this is so wrong, what are we doing_ – so she only reaches back for him, pulls him toward her, and eases herself back down against him slowly, letting out a quiet sigh of pleasure, the reality so much more than the memory.

He does feel so good.

He starts to move inside her, slowly, kissing her neck, his hands caressing her freely. But she pushes back against him harder, reminding him, “We don't have long,” forcing a faster rhythm, easing herself lower still to a more pleasurable angle. She takes one of his hands and guides him to her clit, her hand on his, both stroking and pressing against her together, at first in time to and then all out of sync with his thrusting. 

He muffles the sound of his pleasure against the fabric of her jacket, groaning softly as he finishes. She entwines her fingers in his for a moment, squeezing his hand as his orgasm peaks and fades. As he comes back down, he starts touching her again, still moving shallowly inside her. She lets his hand go, leaning down further to rest her head on her hands against the cabinet, enjoying his touch, faster and more insistent until all at once she's crying out against her skin, trying to stay quiet but losing control of her responses as she throbs against his hand, pulling every last pulse of pleasure from her body. 

It is a little while before she can find the strength to stand and he holds onto her, kissing her neck softly and stroking her gently. Finally, their breathing returns to normal and she pushes herself up grudgingly.

She turns to face him again and they help each other fix their clothes with fumbling, nerve-wracked fingers and little nipping kisses. Now that it's over, that feeling of uncertainty and impossibility comes over her again, but she tries to keep it at bay at least a little while longer.

She shakes her head, smiling at him wryly. 

“We can't keep doing this. We're going to get caught.”

“That's progress, at least,” he says, smirking back.

“How?”

He shrugs. “Better than calling it crazy, or wrong.”

“But it amounts to the same thing,” she says, a sad cast coming over her smile. She tries, again, to hold it off, just until she can get to the other side of this door. “I'm sorry I always have to--”

He nods; he doesn't need her to finish. “I'll talk to you.”

She nods back, forcing a last smile before she goes, disappearing back down the hall.


	17. Chapter 17

When Diane arrives at campaign headquarters the next morning, reporters from every major station and newspaper have already assembled, waiting to ambush her. They are so concentrated that she cannot see what they are gathered around before they close in on her, shoving their microphones and cameras in her face.

“Ms Lockhart, do you have any comment?”  
“What do you make of the latest threats?”  
“Do you feel your life is in danger?”

Diane hesitates, confused and alarmed, but before she can formulate any kind of response the guard on duty intercedes, pushing them back and giving her cover to move toward the door. 

Noticing the frenzy, Eli runs out, stepping between her and the press. “The campaign has no comment at this time, we will be releasing a statement--”

“Eli, what--?” But as he ushers her inside, she finally sees it: the whole front window of the building has been smashed to pieces. “Oh my God.”

“Not a word...” he whispers, guiding her inside with a hand light at her back.

Inside, there are two police officers conferring with Kalinda, gathered around a brick lying on the ground.

“Oh my God...” she repeats, horrified, now understanding exactly what has happened. Whoever is making these threats and sending these letters has decided to bring his message a little closer to home.

Diane tries to push past Eli to confront them, but he holds her back gently.

“Please, let Kalinda deal with it. She has it under control,” he says quietly. “And those vultures can see everything.”

She takes a long look at the scene – photographers angling for a better shot; Kalinda calmly twisting the cops around her little finger; volunteers huddled up, glancing over at her and whispering – and she decides he is right. She nods.

“I have some work for you, anyway,” he says, steering her away and down the hall.

“You're trying to keep me busy,” she observes, but allows herself to be led.

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” she smiles grimly.

“Don't thank me yet – you might not like this much better,” he smiles back, leading her toward the conference room.

She sees he has set up a projector, and she braces for the inevitable. If she wanted a distraction from the chaos out there, this was sure to do the job. 

Eli raises both hands in a gesture of feigned remorse. “You asked me to wait until after the debate. But now I want you to get serious about going negative.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You didn't waste any time.”

“When have I ever?” he smirks back at her. “Just give me a second...”

As he fiddles with the controls, she sighs, settling into her chair. This is one of the necessary evils of campaigning she hates most, but after many years she has learned to trust Eli's judgment. But she may never learn to like it.

She glances down at her phone, and notices she has missed several messages – all from Kurt.

> _I just saw the news.  
>  Are you ok?  
>  I'm worried about you._

Despite the very real terror she is trying to keep under control, despite dragging him into it with her, she can't help it – his concern makes her smile.

She writes back:

> _I'm okay. I'm safe._

Barely five seconds go by before he responds.

> _Thank God._

“Okay!” Eli exclaims suddenly, shocking Diane out of her little reverie. Apparently having figured out the projector, he takes his seat across from her. “I want you to keep an open mind here, Diane. I'm open to taking these in a different direction, but I do feel strongly that you need to come out swinging now. Anyway, these are a lot more fair and even-handed than the new one Lyman is circulating.”

“Against me?”

“No, McVeigh. He seems to be hell-bent on taking him out first. You should look it up later – it's despicable, but funny. It makes a lot of apocalyptic pronouncements about what a McVeigh government would do to Illinois, showing him literally blowing things up – exploiting the connection to Timothy McVeigh.”

“That's incredibly offensive,” Diane says, disgusted. “You don't think it will backfire?”

Eli shrugs. “I wouldn't have gone that route, but lot of people seem to confuse them already. And for those who don't, it's still a striking visual.”

She shakes her head. “Please tell me you have something better.”

“Well... ours makes a similar point, but in a more amiable way. First, let me show you our Lyman ad.”

> _“Howard Lyman is using his vast personal wealth to buy influence with voters,”_ the voiceover begins in an ominous tone, over a montage of Lyman appearing to ignore supporters who are trying to talk to him. 
> 
> _“He made over a million dollars in contributions to buy influence with voters, community organizations he never showed an interest in until three weeks ago. When asked, Howard Lyman has no idea he even made the donations.”_
> 
> The video cuts to a young man who asks Lyman, “What do you think about the Chicago Artists' Coalition?” 
> 
> “Bunch of lazy hippies,” he scowls as he walks away, while the text at the bottom of the screen reads: **_$500,000 donation_**
> 
> “Would you support the Community Trust?”
> 
> He waves his hand as if swatting away a pesky insect, grumbling. “Get away from me.”
> 
> The text at the bottom reads: **_$750,000 donation_**
> 
> _“Why would you support Howard Lyman when he doesn't even know what he supports himself?”_  
> 

“And that's a tagline we can use on several anti-Lyman ads to come,” Eli laughs, as the video ends.

“Is this true?”

“Every word of it. When Canning and Lee took over, they had him make all kinds of charitable donations, completely out of the blue.”

She nods slowly – this one seems fair enough. “All right. Show me the McVeigh one.”

“Now this one, I'm really proud of. The team outdid themselves creatively. We even bought the rights to use the Ennio Morricone music.”

> The theme to _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_ begins as a silhouetted figure of Kurt McVeigh in a cowboy hat steps into view. 
> 
> _“Kurt McVeigh wants to turn Illinois into the lawless Old West,”_ the same portentous announcer begins.
> 
> “I do intend to strip the office of the governor of many of its powers,” Kurt says in an interview, the cartoon cowboy hat floating above his head.
> 
> _“McVeigh believes in vigilante justice and putting a gun in every home.”_
> 
> “Of course I support the right to bear arms, I think every citizen has the right to defend his or her family and property, and government restrictions have gone way too far.”
> 
> _“With current regulations in place, Chicago's crime rate has dropped 56% over the last four years. How far back do you want to go?”_
> 
> Cowboy Kurt appears again, firing a gun in each hand as he rides off on horseback into what appears to be a desolate western landscape.

“What do you think?” Eli prompts, eagerly awaiting her reaction. 

Diane tilts her head, frowning.

His face falls. “You don't like it?”

“It's not bad – I just worry it may have... unintended consequences.”

“Unintended consequences, what do you mean?”

“Well, isn't the cowboy thing a little...” She trails off, sighing. “I mean, a certain subset of people would look at that ad and think he looks a little too... attractive.”

“Seriously? What subset?” Eli asks, becoming agitated. “Do _you_ think he's too attractive?”

“I – no–” she splutters. “I'm just saying, there's a whole rugged, cowboy – thing!”

“That's crazy,” Eli says dismissively.

“I don't know,” Diane shrugs exaggeratedly, as if to say _people are attracted to the strangest things_. “You know what, why don't you show this to Nora, and then see if you have any concerns.”

“Yeah, I usually do the _opposite_ of what Nora advises,” Eli scowls.

“Do you really think it's necessary to go negative so early? Honestly, I don't think the debate went that badly.”

“Well, the press is having a field day with all your interruptions and arguing, framing you as entitled and elitist. Do you have any idea how many times you rolled your eyes at McVeigh? If you don't, you can look it up on YouTube, someone posted a montage that has 250,000 views since last night.” He shakes his head. “Why do you let him get under your skin so much?”

Diane struggles to keep a straight face – if he only knew. “When _you_ talk to people who have terrible ideas, Eli, you have the luxury of exploding at them. By comparison, I think I do pretty well.”

“One of the main reasons I prefer to stay behind the scenes, Diane. Anyway, his message is resonating.”

“Are the polls bad?” she grimaces.

“Not that bad for you. But excellent for him.”

She had expected as much. He did do well – he was charming and he made his points, and she failed to underline how destructive they would be in practice. She sighs, searching for a bright side. “Well, Howard Lyman was a disaster at least.”

“Canning and Lee don't need Lyman to look like a particularly _good_ candidate to get him into the state house. They just need you and McVeigh to look worse. That's why they're working so hard to discredit him–”

Eli stops abruptly, looking as though an idea has suddenly hit him. An expression of astonishment and then something like glee comes over his face. “I'll be back,” he says, standing and moving toward the door without further explanation.

“What?” Diane looks after him, baffled. “What, Eli?”

But he is already gone.

Diane sits there alone for a minute, wondering, but not unaccustomed to these sudden outbursts of his. She takes out her phone again, hesitating before adding to their conversation. The ad against Kurt is fairly innocuous, hardly mudslinging. But still she feels a pang of guilt at the thought of putting anything negative out there at all.

> _I need to warn you.  
>  We might be putting out an attack ad._

She waits, nervously awaiting his reaction. It isn't long in coming, which makes her smile, regardless of what it says.

> _I expected it sooner or later. What does it say?_

> _That's a campaign secret._

> _I think I could get it out of you._

> _It's TOP secret._

> _I like a challenge._

She laughs, allowing herself to indulge in this outrageous flirtation for a moment. But she sets the phone on the table, wanting to think it through before she pushes this any further. Last night was quite possibly the most insane thing she has ever done in a long life, well-lived. But she knew exactly what she was doing, and she can't bring herself to regret it now.

She doesn't know how they can do this. But she also doesn't know how they can not do this.

That probably isn't a good enough reason to satisfy her better instincts, but she picks up the phone again and types impulsively:

> _I want to see you._

An unusually long silence passes this time. Each time she had texted him that morning he responded almost immediately, but now she imagines he must be questioning it too, wondering why she keeps pulling him in only to push him away. She pictures him sitting there at his desk feeling hurt, or angry or – more likely, she tells herself, he has been called away by some important business.

She grins, relieved at his eventual and typically straightforward response:

> _How?_

She bites her lip. She hadn't thought it through that far. But perhaps – it could really be as simple as this.

> _Do you own a hooded sweatshirt?_


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw probably ;)

When Diane returns home that night, Jack is already waiting at the door outside her apartment. He waves at the guard who has brought her up, completing the handoff. 

“I've already done my inspection rounds,” he says lightly. “Thought I'd spare you. I know you don't care for the excitement.”

“Yes, the thrill has worn off, I'm afraid.” She smiles at him. “Thank you, that was kind.”

“Not a bit of it!” he exclaims, smiling back as if it was an invitation. “You're looking lovely, by the way.”

She ignores the remark. “Listen, Jack... I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Anything for you, I hope you know. Well, unless you're going to ask me to break the rules again, in which case, no. I hear you've pulled that bathroom trick twice now. That wouldn't even work on me, I'm afraid.”

“No, no rule breaking. I know you're very serious... in your way.” She hesitates. She has been thinking over this plan all afternoon, but now that the time has come to voice it, it seems so crude. She plunges on anyhow. “No, I wanted to return to the offer you made, a couple weeks ago.”

“What offer was that? I seem to make a lot of those.”

“I have a...” She grimaces, settling on the word that seems to be the easiest, if not the truest. “Boyfriend.”

“Aha!” He points at her, grinning, as if he has just caught her red-handed.

“Look, as far as the press and the official campaign is concerned, I'm single. There would be all kinds of questions and insinuations if there was even a hint--”

“I understand perfectly. You don't even need to explain.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. The only thing is... And Jack I don't want you to take this the wrong way. I do trust you.”

“But?”

“Not even you can know who he is.”

He raises his eyebrows mockingly. “That scandalous?”

“Maybe. I don't want to take any chances. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“He's going to be wearing a hooded sweatshirt, so no one recognizes him on the way up.”

Again his eyebrows shoot up. “Is he famous, then?”

She ignores him, continuing. “And when he comes, I don't want you to even try to get a look at him--”

“I will be as stoic as the palace guards!” He goes serious, then, noting a trace of doubt on her face. “Ms Lockhart – _Diane_ – you can trust me. I won't look, and I won't breathe a word. I'm _relieved_ to know you might be getting a bit of fun in your life.”

A bit of fun. She feels ridiculous suddenly – all of this for a bit of fun. But she says only, “Thank you. Really, I appreciate it.”

She did not want to get home much in advance of their planned meeting time, knowing if she had any time to kill she would overthink it, drive herself crazy again with questions, possibly call it all off. And she did not _want_ to call it off. Ever-dependable himself, Kurt texts her that he is on his way up at 9pm precisely. She has not even had a chance to check her reflection in the mirror, and it's just as well. _Don't overthink it_ , she tells herself for the dozenth time. _It is what it is._

Five minutes later he knocks at her door, and she opens it quickly, almost pulling him inside. It's part guilt and part excitement, part hating to think of him feeling anxious a moment longer than he needs to out in the hall.

His face doesn't betray any of the same feelings. A lopsided smile spreads slowly across his face, looking a little lost in her eyes. “Hi,” he manages.

He looks at her that way once in a while and if he ever realized how utterly disarming it is, she would be in very serious trouble indeed.

“Hello,” she says slowly, drawing the word out, perhaps a little lost herself. 

But she really notices him a moment later, the full effect of the hooded sweatshirt, and she doubles over in laughter. She is laughing too loud and too long, she knows it, but the combination of nerves and the absurdity of his appearance, of this whole situation, suddenly gets the better of her. She steadies herself with one palm on his chest, trying to pull herself together again. 

“What's so funny?” he asks, his arms helpless dead weight at his sides.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just--” She shakes her head, catching her breath. “You resemble the Unabomber more than Timothy McVeigh, in that.”

He scowls half-heartedly, laughing too as he pulls back the hood, his unkempt hair falling where it may. She resists the urge to brush it back off his forehead. Later, perhaps, she will give in.

Her eyes fall on his lips, then. Funny, now that he is here – explicitly to be kissed, explicitly to be taken to her bedroom to have her way with him – it is awkward somehow to initiate the proceedings. Should there not be some preamble? 

She is not exactly new to casual sex, but perhaps she is out of practice. 

Or perhaps this is different.

She isn't sure what to say, then, but – fortunately or unfortunately, she isn't sure which – Justice saves her the trouble, coming skittering into the foyer, jumping between them, pawing at his his legs. She yips happily the way she does for few but Diane.

“Hey there,” Kurt says, patting her head, which only prompts Justice to jump on him all the more enthusiastically.

“Don't encourage her. Justice!” she shouts, startling them both, motioning for the dog to follow her. “I'm sorry,” she calls back at Kurt as she leads the dog to an empty room and shuts the door. Not to the bedroom, if they ever make it there.

“No, no,” he calls back, waiting there awkwardly, unzipping the ridiculous sweatshirt and looking around for a place to put it. He settles for hanging it on the doorknob just opposite the entrance. It is almost certainly the coat closet, but he doesn't feel right just looking inside.

Diane comes back, still coursing with nervous energy. “She's a big fan of yours, actually. I think she recognizes you from the news.”

“Smart dog,” he smirks back. 

“Do you want a drink?” 

“Sure, yeah.”

She turns and walks back down the hall toward the kitchen, aware that he is following her, albeit slowly, somewhat uncertainly. It makes her feel more at ease herself. Not to think of him being uncomfortable exactly, but – to know he is on her home turf now.

“I have wine, or, um--” She looks through her collection, frowning. She is sure he is not a wine man. If she had thought, she would have asked the housekeeper to pick up some beer. “Oh!” she exclaims suddenly, remembering. “Whiskey?”

“That will do,” he replies agreeably, finally catching up with her, leaning against the door frame.

She pulls two glasses and a barely-touched bottle of Tullamore Dew down from the shelf. She is relieved, for the moment, to have something concrete to do with her hands. She doesn't mind their easy sparring or even the awkward silences, but she can't think of a thing to say that isn't likely to lead down the path to an argument. Then again, there is an upside to that, as they've learned.

Eventually, Kurt breaks the silence himself. “Your bodyguard – is that the right word?”

“I don't know, I guess so. This is all still so strange to me,” she says, trying to laugh.

“I can imagine. Anyway your bodyguard is a little smart alecky, huh?”

“Oh, God. What did he say to you?” She cringes, handing him a glass.

He shakes his head as he accepts it, clinking it against hers. “Something like 'Ms Lockhart has been waiting for you' in that cocky accent of his – what is it, Australian?”

“Yes – I'm sorry. He is sort of a joker. I can imagine it gets boring, standing out there alone.”

“This is good,” he says appreciatively, sipping the drink. “Yeah, I'm sure it's a boring job until suddenly it gets all too exciting.” He gives her a long look, studying her. “You sure you're doing okay?”

She shrugs. “Under the circumstances.” She begins to feel nervous again under his penetrating gaze and breaks away, leading him back to the living room. But she carries on as if it was nothing. “Despite what happened today, I'm starting to feel like it's all empty threats. No one has come after me. I'm almost getting used to it.”

She sets the bottle down on the coffee table and sits down on one end of the couch, one leg curled under her, sipping her drink. 

He looks down at her gravely. “Please tell me you're taking this seriously.”

“I am, of course. But after a while... anything starts to feel normal, I suppose.”

He's still frowning as he sits down next to her. But she is inwardly pleased. She is sure he didn't give it a thought, but there are any number of other places in the room he could have sat. But he choose to sit just a foot away and – even this, she supposes, could start to feel normal in time.

He remains serious, though, looking over at her over the top of his glass as he takes a long drink. Finally he asks, “Do you think we need to...” He struggles to find an acceptable term. “Define parameters, here?”

“What?” she asks, a lightness in her voice she hopes he does not interpret as her laughing at him. Already the liquor is beginning to warm her, making her feel more loose. She makes a little gesture, pointing at him and back to herself. “About this?”

“Yes, about this – see, we're calling it 'this' because we don't know what else to call it.”

She takes a long gulp, draining her glass quickly. She raises her eyebrows, leaning forward for the bottle. “Another?”

He nods.

“I think...” She hesitates, grateful again to have something to do as she collects her thoughts. “I think it doesn't have to be a lot more complicated than what you said the first time we were together. We're just two adults who enjoy being together.”

She settles back against the couch, trying to keep her smile light and steady.

“But you did think it was complicated. You're, what, suddenly over that now?”

“I still think this is crazy, and I still think we're running a huge risk if we get caught. But I still want to. So.” She sighs. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” he repeats, as if in accord. “And how is it going to work, you just text me every time you want to --”

“I believe the kids call it a booty call,” she laughs. The whiskey is definitely starting to go to her head now.

“Right. So I'm a booty call.”

“Well, don't look so offended. It usually works out pretty well for both of us.”

He nods slowly, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

She shifts her hips into a more comfortable position, sliding deeper against the couch, and closer to him. She can tell he is distracted by her movement. He is always so easily distracted.

But there are a few things still on his mind. “And do we... not talk about the campaign? Do we pretend we're not...” He trails off, looking for the right word again. “I have a hard time thinking of you as my opponent.”

She laughs lightly – she isn't sure she feels the same, exactly, although it's beginning to feel more possible to separate the two. Kurt the opponent, and Kurt the... whatever this is. 

“I think we talk about whatever we want, Kurt. Or not talk, as the case may be.” 

Unintended and unnoticed, she has managed to drift close enough to him to rub her shoulder against his, which she does now, letting it rest there meaningfully. 

“In that case...” He leans closer too, dropping his voice lower. It makes her shiver. “Suppose you tell me more about that attack ad you're putting out against me?”

“I'm not telling you anything.”

“Tell me,” he presses, sliding one arm around her side.

“No,” she insists, a petulant, teasing tone in her voice.

“You don't think I can get it out of you?”

She shakes her head. “But I don't mind if you try.”

He moves to close the few inches that separate their lips, brushing against hers lightly. She deepens the kiss, pressing back against him, setting her glass on the table behind them. She breaks away just long enough to find his glass and take it from him, placing it next to hers. He takes advantage of her momentary distraction, pushing her back against the couch. She laughs as she falls, the room spinning just slightly from the drink and from him, as he wastes no time before pulling her skirt and panties down to her knees. 

She wriggles and kicks them off altogether as he settles between her legs, first only his fingers teasing her, his fingers which have begun to know her well. 

“I'm pretty sure I can break you,” he says softly, a devilish look in his eye which he holds all the way down until he lowers his face to her.

He teases her, slowly playing with her, his tongue and fingers gliding over her and then inside her but maddeningly avoiding any focused attention to her clit. Every time she makes a little noise of pleasure he raises his head, stopping, asking if she's ready to tell, and when she refuses he resumes his work of bringing her right to the edge, stopping just short of it. She tries to remain silent – not easy under his touch – but then he stops each time she tangles his hair too tightly in her fingers, or bucks too strongly against him. 

He carries on this torture for twenty, thirty minutes, she can't be sure, but when he raises his head one last time and playfully growls, “Tell me,” she can see he can't take much more, either.

She shakes her head resolutely, in contrast to what she's sure is a look of pure torment on her face, closing her eyes and reclining back as he resumes. This time he launches a direct attack, his tongue tickling at then soothing over her, his fingers rolling her clit between them harder and faster. When she begins to cry out now, he does not stop, does not seem able to stop, lapping at her and and bringing her closer and closer. She can't bear the thought of him stopping at this point but she also has no control now over her responses, a gasp followed by a low moan, as he coaxes wave after wave of orgasm from her body.

She is still breathing hard when he travels the length back to her mouth, kissing her distractedly, pressing his weight against her, making her conscious of his own desire.

“You win, after all,” he whispers, brushing light kisses across her cheek, jaw, and neck.

“Well,” she sighs, stretching happily beneath him, pulling him harder against her. “Like I said, we both usually do pretty well in the end.”

She returns his kisses, unfastening his pants and sliding them roughly over his hips. They don't bother about the rest of their clothing before she has her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, drawing him inside, both of them sighing against the other's neck. His hips move against hers, both too worked up to fall into sync at first, but finally she catches up with him, encouraging him with every movement, running her fingertips over his back, squeezing his ass. 

“Bet I can break _you_ ,” she whispers in his ear, and only moments later she has, reducing him to a stream of unintelligible noises murmured into her skin.

They kiss lazily for long minutes after, their hands moving over each other, dipping under the clothes they're still wearing. Part of her revels in how irresistible they are to each other, and part of her already regrets that they never made it to the bedroom. There will be other times for that, she supposes – for perhaps the first time, she imagines that there can and will be a next time. 

Finally he sits, pulling his pants back on, helping her with her skirt. He leans back against the couch with a sigh – of satisfaction, of exhaustion, she thinks; maybe just a hint of regret, too. She rests her chin on his shoulder, running one hand through his unruly hair now, smiling as it falls back on his forehead, brushing it back again. 

“You should get serious,” she says softly.

“I'm always serious,” he says, pulling her hand down and around his waist.

“I mean it, Kurt.” She pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, her other arm draped across the back of the couch, falling around his neck. “You're doing well in the polls since the debate. I bet your donations are pouring in, too.”

“I don't know about pouring,” he demurs.

“This was the first chance a lot of people got to really know you, and you did well. And now I think you should get serious. Hire a real campaign manager. Do it for real.”

He makes a face. “I don't know.”

She laughs lightly, shaking her head. “You think you're somehow above all this, you want to do it your own way, you want to make a point. But I'm telling you, you have a real shot at this race, Kurt. If you want it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

It is a fair question. She isn't sure, really. She voices one possibility that she suspects is only the beginning of the truth. “I want to beat you, but I want to do it fair and square.”

“Well, I'll think about it.” He squeezes her hand, looking over her and giving her what feels like the final kiss even before he says so. “I guess I'd better go.”

She nods and says, “Okay.”

But as she disentangles herself from him, she can't help but feel bereft. If their places were reversed, she would go now. In a little while, she would want him to go. But curled up on her couch, for a moment at least, it does feel as simple as that: just two adults who enjoy one another.

It is jarring to remember this is both more and less than that.

She walks him to the door, her arms crossed and looking down, not much else to say now. For a moment there at the door there is that awkwardness again, but she remembers with a little laugh, “Oh! Your sweatshirt.”

He smiles ruefully as he puts it back on. It is utterly silly, the charade they go through for a few minutes, an hour together – but worth it. “Guess I'd better keep this close by.”

“For the unexpected booty call,” she forces a laugh again, but blushes. The alcohol has worn off. Now they are just two painfully self-aware adults who don't know what to make of each other.

“All right, I'll see you,” he says, with a casualness she suspects he does not feel. He leans over to give her one last kiss. They misread each other's signals, landing awkwardly, a peck half on the cheek, half on the lips.

“Okay,” she says. “Goodnight.”

She opens the door and he says no more, ducking out of sight quickly. She closes the door just as quickly, certainly in no mood to deal with Jack now.

Eager for something definite to do again, she strides down the hall to the closed door, letting Justice out with a stream of affectionate and apologetic nonsense. Justice yips resentfully, but is easily placated by a good scratch behind the ear.

“Well, you finally met him,” Diane sighs. “What do you think?”

Justice stands at attention for a moment, then yips again, wagging her tail.

“I figured you would,” Diane says, standing and wandering back down the hall to tidy up. “So do I.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a Parks and Recreation fan, yes there is a little crossover action here :)
> 
> and just very slight mention of nsfw business?

Diane sips her coffee at her desk as she scrolls through the local papers' websites, scanning for her name. Chicago police took into custody a suspect implicated in the brick-throwing incident the other day. Her relief at this news was short-lived, as they released his identity a few hours later: a fifteen-year-old boy who was paid twenty dollars to do it by a man in a ski mask. The police have no further leads. 

She is frustrated, but this has gone on long enough that she is almost used to it, having a constant second shadow, someone always accounting for where she is and what she is doing. By now, she barely notices the extra security – unless it's Jack, who is the least subtle person she has ever met. Still, she would dearly love to have her normal life back. It would make so many things much simpler. At least, it would make one thing much simpler.

She laughs to herself, remembering the sight of him in that ridiculous hooded sweatshirt.

She has not seen him since that night, and she feels his absence. The next day seemed much too soon, and then she went on the road for two days of campaign events throughout the state. She has kept one eye on the news and the other on her phone all morning, wanting to invite him over but finding it awkward now that they have more or less formed an... arrangement. She cringes at the thought; that is not the right word.

For now, there is this calculation: Jack is on duty tonight, and he will be off for the next two. If she doesn't text him now, it could be a long time before they are both free. And she misses him. She is painfully aware of the fact that she hasn't seen him naked since the first time they were together, and she misses his lightly muscled body, misses his hands on her bared stomach and breasts. Even then they were rushed and anxious, and for the past few days she has spent a lot of time thinking about what she would like to do if they could take their time with each other for once.

She misses him, but not only for the sex. She is also painfully aware that they haven't had a real intimate conversation since that same night, the spontaneous walk that led to all manner of spontaneous questions and confessions. Since then, there has been flirtation and guarded moments of tenderness, yes, but she is so careful of what she says now, and he ran off so quickly the other night – they seem to be always, always running away from each other.

Which she should hardly wonder about. She has to remind herself sometimes: he is her opponent, and she is playing with fire.

She needs to find a way to make this all simpler.

But for now, she just needs to see him. 

Without allowing herself to dwell on it for another minute, she picks up her phone and texts him:

> _Do you want to come over?_

She reads over her words on the screen and they look so much more stark and demanding there than she had imagined. She sounds desperate. But what the hell; she feels desperate.

> _Sorry, can't._

She frowns, reading his typically blunt response. Her first thought is that he is refusing to be her booty call. She realizes now she should never have said that – it seemed funny in the moment, but it doesn't now. It isn't the right word for what this is. She still doesn't have a good word for it. 

Her phone vibrates again a minute later, and he clarifies:

> _I'm out of town. Call you when I get back?_

She breaks out into a grin, relieved.

> _I'd like that._

> _I'm taking your advice, talking to a “real” campaign manager._

> _Oh good for you – who?_

> _Campaign secret.  
>  Gotta go. Talk to you soon._

She sets down the phone, still smiling. He understands, then; probably he hates this _arrangement_ as much as she does, but for the same reasons. And she can hear his teasing voice in those words, which have now become a kind of code between them. Now she will be preoccupied all afternoon with thoughts of torturing campaign secrets out of him... 

Five minutes later her phone rings, and she is genuinely surprised to look down and see that Kurt is calling her now. She narrows her eyes in confusion – he just said he had to go. But she picks up, trying to keep her voice neutral until she understands his angle. “Hello?”

She waits for a few seconds, but there is no response. 

“Hello?”

She looks down at the screen to see if the call is still connected – it is, but still he doesn't answer.

“Are you there? ...Kurt?”

He says nothing, but now she can hear muffled voices and background noise. 

“Ms Barkley will see you now,” she hears a female voice finally, distant, but audible.

“Great, thanks,” a little clearer, Kurt replies.

Diane sets down the phone, mutes it, and puts it on speaker. She turns the volume all the way up, hopeful she can hear a bit better. She realizes by now that this was a mistake. He must have stopped texting her when he went into this meeting, put his phone in his pocket, and accidentally called. 

She bites her lip – it's wrong to keep listening. She should hang up. But she isn't thinking of Kurt-the-boyfriend now; she is thinking of Kurt-the-enemy, and _that_ Kurt may have freely allowed her access to inside information about his campaign. In a tightening race, she is hardly going to walk away from that. 

“Kurt, hi, sorry to keep you waiting!” This Ms Barkley sounds aggressively cheerful to Diane, and she can just picture her striding over to him to shake his hand with an exaggerated grin, something about her manner still making it clear that she is in complete control.

“Not at all,” he responds, and again Diane can imagine his easygoing smile, the straightforward return of the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Ms Barkley.”

“Please, call me Jen! Ah, Kurt McVeigh. If you'd come to me sooner, I would have advised you to change your name,” she lets out an assertive burst of laughter.

Diane raises her eyebrows and turns to her computer, opening ChumHum to search for Jennifer Barkley. As they make small talk on the phone, she skims through a summary of her career, heading up a number of successful national Republican campaigns, running a consulting firm based in Washington, D.C. She realizes then that Kurt isn't just out of town; he must have flown out there to meet her. He followed her advice to get serious – and then some.

“So let's cut the crap and get down to business,” Jennifer's tone changes suddenly, bringing Diane's attention back to the phone. “Why do you think I want to work for you?”

She can hear him working to suppress his incredulity as he replies. “Because I have a message of reform and change that I think Illinois is ready for. I have a lot of support and momentum right now, but I realize that to get elected I need someone who understands the ins and outs of campaigning to help us cross the finish line.”

“I'm gonna assume you know my resume – out of all the candidates who want me, why am I going to back the third-party, third-place guy in a statewide race?”

Diane is almost proud to hear him respond to her challenge with a challenge. “Because I know the Senate candidate you were backing in this cycle just withdrew from the race in the midst of a sex scandal, and you don't have anything better to do for the next six weeks now.”

“And you're not just another sex scandal waiting to happen?”

“No.”

Diane gets a good laugh out of that. She is impressed he can say it with a straight face. Of course _that_ is precisely what they are, if she is looking for a word for it: a sex scandal waiting to happen.

“What about all your volunteers?” Jennifer presses him.

“I have, to this point, been running a grassroots campaign staffed by volunteers. Many of them are my students.”

“Your pretty, young, female students.”

“Many of them.”

“Yeah, I've been reading up on you, Kurt. Howard Lyman never misses a chance to imply you're sleeping with them.”

“That's because he has nothing else to talk about.”

“Because honestly, I don't think I can take one more sex scandal.”

“You won't have to worry about that with me.”

“All right, I believe you, because you've got that whole down-to-earth, Real America thing going on. But first thing I'm going to do is replace half of them with some of my people.”

“No. I'm sorry, that's a dealbreaker.”

“Kurt, it's six weeks, they're volunteers. Do you want to win this or not?”

“It's the principle of the thing.”

“See, that right there? That's why guys like you aren't meant for politics. Hung up on principles.”

“Yeah, you're not the first person to think that.”

Maybe she wants to hear it there, but she thinks he must be remembering that first romantic walk, when she asked him if he really wanted all of this. If he does want it, Jennifer Barkley is probably the perfect person to help him get it. But now she wonders again – is it really worth it to him?

He sighs after thinking it over for what feels like a long time. “All right. Your people can move in.”

“Good. We'll get to work. I'll have the crew fly out to Chicago in the morning.”

“It's actually a 40-minute drive from Chicago – my headquarters is at my farm in the country.”

“No, that's going to change, too. I meant Chicago.”

Diane hears him sigh again. This is going to be hard on him, she knows.

“Look, I came to you because someone who knows how this game is played a lot better than I do advised me to. And I will admit that you know a lot more than I do, too, so I will trust your judgment up to a point. But there is one thing I'm not going to move on.”

Absurdly, Diane finds herself mentally cheering him on, encouraged to hear him assert himself – and touched that he mentioned her, however vaguely.

“I'm going to win this by talking about the issues. Whatever happens, I'm not going to go negative.”

“This is Illinois politics, Kurt! You've heard the trash Lyman is spewing about you – and I saw Diane Lockhart's new cowboy ad. It's cute, but it's not exactly friendly.”

“That's just the way it is.”

She makes an exaggerated groaning noise, but finally says, “All right. Lucky for you, I like a challenge. And I can start you off with something even more powerful than fear or mudslinging: celebrity.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can line up Sarah Palin to show up at a rally for you next week and endorse you.”

“Wow. Yeah, that would be great.”

“Great, great,” Jennifer echoes him, her tone seeming to abruptly shift again to one of boredom now that they have come to an agreement. “See Amanda again on your way out and she'll work out the details with you, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks. Nice meeting you.”

Diane ends the call and is on her feet the moment it's clear the meeting is over. Now she is not thinking of how he feels or whether it's right to do this – only that she is a candidate with important intel against her opponent. She strides down the hall as fast as she can without actually running, barging into Eli's office and shutting the door behind her.

He looks up sharply, an expression halfway between annoyance and alarm flashing across his face.

“Don't ask me how I know this. But I need to tell you something.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just mentions of nsfw things :]

"I still can't believe he got Jennifer Barkley," Eli grumbles, shaking his head.

"I told you," Diane throws back at him. “You're only upset about it because she thinks the same way you do.”

They stand at one end of the Show Barn at the Effingham County Fair, both with their arms crossed, quietly watching Kurt and Jennifer at the other end. Both candidates will be co-judging the Youth Pie Contest later in the afternoon, but Eli thought it would be prudent for Diane to make an appearance at a few other events, shake a few more hands. Evidently, Jennifer Barkley had the same idea.

And that is how, after attending the qualifying rounds in the tractor pull and the banana derby (which, as it turns out, has nothing to do with bananas), they have found themselves at the Costume Goat Lead competition.

“There is a goat dressed as a _taco_ ,” Diane says, her voice dripping with a mystified kind of mockery, in contrast to the grins and thumbs up she throws to the young goat handlers.

"Doesn't it undercut McVeigh's whole independent, anti-Big-Everything image to hire someone like her?" Eli asks, paying no real attention to the parade of dressed-up goats before him. He considers this for a moment, then adds, "We could use that against him."

"Absolutely not.” She catches Kurt's eye across the small makeshift arena for a moment, exchanging a quick smile neither of their managers seem to notice.

"Come on! What was the point of giving me a heads up then?"

"So you could get prepared. I was more concerned about the Palin thing, anyway."

Eli laughs. "We did steal his thunder there."

Eli had called in every favor he had with the national Democratic party to line up Hillary Clinton in person on short notice, but he came through. Clinton went on the road with Diane and delivered a stirring speech on her behalf, just hours before Sarah Palin took the stage in a “surprise” appearance for Kurt. Diane won the news cycle for the afternoon, and both were given equal attention in the evening reports. 

He had called her from the road that night, asking “ _Really?_ ” before he even said hello. “We must be reading each other's minds,” she had joked back. “You're not going to let me win a single battle, are you?” She laughed and responded, “Sure, you can come first now and then, as long as we keep the tally even.” They had ended the call soon after, promising to even the score as soon as he came home. By that time, they were far past the point of double entendre.

If he did suspect anything, he didn't seem to hold a grudge.

“Which is your favorite goat?” Diane asks Eli, laughing.

“What?” He glances up from his cell phone and quickly back down again. “I'm checking our internals.”

“I'm partial to the goat dressed as a businessman, led by the little boy dressed as a goat.”

Her own phone vibrates, then, and she pulls it out of her back pocket.

> _I like the boots.  
>  It's a turn-on._

She smirks. She would never admit it to him, but she went out and bought these cowboy boots as much for his benefit as for the event itself. Pulled over her tight-fitting jeans, she is very aware of how well they show off her long legs.

> _They were a pain to get on.  
>  Maybe you can help me take them off later._

She watches his face as he reads her text: first the rise of his eyebrows, then the slightly embarrassed laugh. He types back:

> _I'll be looking forward to that._

She smiles back at him, watching for her response just as intently. Even from a distance, the lust in his eyes is obvious. She forces herself to turn her attention back to costumed goats.

They haven't been able to sync their schedules for a week now and at this point she thinks she might just drag him behind the barn and have her way with him.

“I can't get a good signal in here,” Eli scowls. “I'm going to step out and make a few calls.”

He isn't gone for two seconds before Jack steps forward into his place.

“Did you know Australia leads the world in exporting goat meat?”

“Oh, Jack,” Diane cringes, turning away from the trotting little animals in pink ruffles and top hats. 

“Fifty percent market share,” he goes on, undeterred. “But we won't eat it. Neither will you Americans. It's a lot leaner than other meat, though, and they eat it all over the rest of the world. Makes you wonder.”

“I don't wonder,” she shudders. “Look at them! They're adorable; how could you eat them?”

“Diane, if you don't think these little guys are headed to slaughter...”

“Oh, stop,” she says, waving a hand to quiet him. She turns away from him to lean on the railing, watching the parade of goats now with a sick feeling in her stomach.

“Sorry, I didn't think you were so delicate,” he laughs, leaning forward beside her.

She shakes her head ruefully – there's a limit to how amusing he can be, and he frequently pushes it. She looks over at Kurt, hoping to reestablish a connection with someone saner than the rest of the men in her life. But this time he looks away quickly, whispers something to Jennifer, and turns to leave.

Diane checks her watch and stands up straight again, flashing a cursory smile at Jack. “I should probably head over to my event now.”

“Of course. I'll be right behind you,” he grins back.

_I know you will be_ , she wants to grumble, but stops herself. 

She thought she might spot Kurt once she got out into the open, but he seems to have completely disappeared. But as much as she would like to corner him, there is not much she can say or do for now, so it's just as well if he makes himself scarce. In the meantime, she will be dying of anticipation for tonight, and her only consolation is that he must be feeling the same way.

She kills time at the pie contest tent as the youth competitors begin to assemble and set up their stations. She makes small talk with the parents, pleased to speak to people who are more passionate about baking and farm animals than politics for once. All the while, she keeps one eye out for Kurt, who doesn't arrive until about five minutes before the event. 

She excuses herself when she sees him, walking over to the front of the tent where the organizer is explaining the rules to him and the other judge, a professional baker. He hands Diane a scorecard, bringing her up to speed. She catches the gist but finds her attention drifting, distracted by Kurt's nearness. He is so close now that she can smell what she now recognizes as the soap he uses, and underneath it the scent of his sweat in this late summer sun.

"What did you think of the goats?" Kurt asks quietly, leaning in closer still while the organizer turns to the crowd and explains how the event will proceed.

Diane smiles, sounding more composed than she feels. "Someday, you'll have to explain to me the things that go on at a county fair."

"Sure. That'll make great pillow talk." 

She makes a shushing noise, struggling to resist the urge to laugh or hit him. 

Diane forces herself to focus on what the announcer is saying, now and then giving little waves to the crowd. 

“This is a non-partisan event, so there'll be no speeches from these two today. That's why they're judging the Youth competition, so they can't sway any votes!”

The crowd laughs along at his every remark as if he is a stand-up comedian. Diane exchanges a look with Kurt, who merely shrugs.

“Well, let's get to tasting pie!"

Diane studies her judging card – fifteen numbered pies to taste, some of which do not sound particularly delicious: vinegar pie, funeral pie, hot dog pie. Again she glances over at Kurt, who looks equally dubious. How she wishes she could grab his arm now and pull him aside, laughing about the ridiculous situations campaigns get them into. Instead she tries to ignore him, rotely smiling and waving at the contestants and observers as she approaches the tasting area.

The pies are divided between three tables, one behind the other. By accident or intention – she suspects the latter, but cannot say for sure – Kurt winds up directly across the table from her. He catches her eye, smiling as he tastes the pie in front of him, trying to make her laugh again. Almost imperceptibly, she purses her lips and shakes her head. She knows he has understood, but now he is staring fixedly at her lips as she chews, which is equally distracting for other reasons.

She makes a point of moving through the line faster than him, proceeding quickly to the next table to avoid his gaze. In retaliation, she brushes her arm against his as she passes. Her hand grazes across his thigh, her face betraying nothing. 

Now that she has put some distance between them, her eyes dart over to him now and then, at first catching him sneaking glances back at her. As she moves down the line, however, she realizes he has turned his attention to someone in the crowd. She tries to follow his line of sight, but she cannot tell who he is looking at in particular. She doesn't recognize anyone; just a sea of fairgoers.

He moves over to her table, still keeping an eye on the crowd behind her as he proceeds from pie to pie. Vaguely she is aware that he is trying to catch her attention now, but she is sure he only wants to make her laugh again. Later, she thinks, she will make him pay for this.

"All right, that's it! Judges, can I please have your ballots?” The organizer gestures for them to return to the front of the tent. “Please have a seat while we tally the scores."

Diane intentionally sits next to the other judge, leaving no room for Kurt to come near her. She will not let him whisper anything in her ear this time, will not let him get close enough that she can touch him – she is too easily tempted, and sometime, someone is going to see one of their secret smiles and recognize it for what it is. 

The organizer reads out the scores and the winners, first, second and third place, and it seems to go on forever, handing out ribbons and taking pictures with each of them. All the while, she is aware of Kurt fidgeting, still trying to get her attention. She does her best to ignore him, plotting revenge scenarios for later, when they are alone.

After the last winner has been announced, Diane thanks the other judge and the organizer, still avoiding Kurt. She turns directly to the audience, shaking a few more hands before she leaves the tent. As soon as she is a safe distance away, Jack and two other agents trailing her, she pulls out her phone and texts Kurt:

> _You're going to get me into trouble one of these days._

She puts her phone in her back pocket, not wanting to entertain any response he may have until he texts her that he is on his way to her hotel room. 

"Hey, what the hell, man?" she hears someone yell out suddenly, followed shortly by the shouts of a gathering crowd.

Diane whirls around, but she sees only a growing circle of onlookers, unable to tell what they're looking at. She starts to walk jog back to find out, Jack quickly catching up and getting in front of her. 

"Oi! What's going on?" he calls out, clearing a path through the crowd. 

As Jack pushes to the center of the throng, she finally get a glimpse of what had caused the stir – a young man on the ground, struggling to get up, and Kurt himself pinning him there.

She rushes forward, avoiding the other guards' attempts to stop her.

"He was coming after her," Kurt tries to explain to Jack, panting. "I think he has a gun in his pocket."

Kurt lets him take over, shakily coming to his feet and standing back as Jack pats the attacker down.

"I didn't do anything, get off me!" he keeps yelling, squirming helplessly under Jack's hold.

"Where did you see a weapon?" Jack barks back at him.

"In his front pocket – he had his hand on it back there at the contest, and he was coming after her--"

Diane, stunned, walks into the fray, coming to stand beside Kurt. "Was he really trying to attack me?"

"I think so, yeah," he says, still struggling to get his breath back.

Diane looks at the man on the ground, horrified to think this could be the psychopath who has been writing her these threatening letters. He looks perfectly normal. She would never have picked him out of a crowd.

She turns back to Kurt, her eyes full of gratitude he seems to be unwilling to accept. "You could have been killed yourself."

He meets her gaze, helpless, speechless, and it's almost more than she can take, his eyes saying what he cannot: _of course I did; how could I not?_

"Is this the dangerous weapon?" Jack draws their attention back, holding up a small notebook and pen.

"I was trying to get her fucking autograph!" the young man yells, struggling to sit up as Jack releases his hold on him. 

"He's clean," Jack says, standing. "You can go, kid."

Diane, overwhelmed with fear, then gratitude, then relief, is slow to take it all in. She turns to Kurt again, aware now of how many people are watching, taking pictures, taking video. She smiles her practiced public smile and jokes, "Well, I guess we both lost a vote today!"

Kurt is still stunned, unsure what to do now, but he takes her cue and tries to laugh. Her stomach churns as she realizes how much more terrible this will be for him, how he will inevitably be mocked in the press. But ridiculous as it may be, she is moved that he tried to protect her.

Jack steps between them, scowling at Kurt. "Appreciate the assistance, McVeigh, but next time leave it to the professionals, all right?"

"Of course," Kurt manages.

Diane tries to flash him one real smile before she is whisked away, guards on either side of her.

 

….................

 

It is the lazy kisses afterward, the slow mindless touches, the warm reassurance of his breathing, that she likes almost more than the sex itself. He brings her right to the point of losing her mind, and as she comes back to her senses there he is, guiding her back down, his lips on hers, his hand entwined in hers, anchoring her solidly when she could as easily float away on a cloud of pleasure. She isn't sure which she likes better. It's a tossup, really.

They spend long minutes just kissing and touching, after – _that is why she likes it so much; it is an end in itself, after; not a build-up to anything else, not distracted from by the pursuit of orgasm; just endlessly enjoying one another_ – before he pulls back, little more than an inch, smiling happily back at her.

"I wasn't sure you'd still want to see me..." he trails off, not wanting to recall the particulars of his humiliation.

"After the unfortunate incident?" she grins back at him.

"Yeah."

"Of course I wanted to see you. My hero," she says airily, falling back against the mattress in an exaggerated swoon. 

He follows her down, pinning her there, kissing her again and again.

She pulls back this time, laughing lightly – _not at him, just laughing, laughing._ "I thought you were a gun expert or something." 

He raises himself back up on one arm, looking down at her. "What can I say, I was blinded by my feelings for you."

"You have feelings for me?” 

The words fall out of her mouth automatically. She means them as a tease, a challenge, an incitement to more kisses. But she almost regrets them a moment later, as he looks her in the eye, expressionless, unreadable. Finally he gives a short little laugh before he turns and slides out of the bed, grabbing his shorts as he goes.

She turns onto her side, watching him walk away. For a terrible few seconds she is afraid she has upset him, the only thing running through her mind the only thing she would never say out loud: _oh, don't go now, don't go, don't go._

"Want some pie?" he calls back as he wanders into the outer room. "I worked up an appetite."

She falls back on the mattress, laughing again, relieved and happy. "Of course!" 

She shakes her head, running both hands through her hair. Yes, they had worked up an appetite. Finally they had taken their time with each other – she made it clear that was what she wanted, and he was more than happy to comply. From the moment he helped her take off those cowboy boots – _slowly pulling them down her legs, kissing her bared skin, inch by inch_ – until her last gasp of pleasure, she isn't sure there is a single spot on her body he has neglected to kiss or caress. 

That was everything she had wanted and needed. And it would have killed her if he had gone now.

"Dutch apple or peach?" he asks.

"Oh, the apple."

But he is here – a man who brings her pie and has feelings for her and isn't rushing out the door this time.

"I went back and checked our scorecards later. Those were the only two we agreed on," he says, reentering the bedroom.

"And who says bipartisan cooperation is dead?" she laughs, standing and crossing the room to her suitcase, stopping him with a kiss on the way.

"God," he breathes at the sight of her. She smirks, thinking he might drop the pie, the way he's staring.

She fishes out her robe and shrugs into it, cinching it around her waist before rejoining him in bed, pulling the covers over them both. He hands her a plastic fork and sets the pie tin down between them.

"Thank you," she says, looking up at him flirtatiously as she slowly chews her first bite.

He points at her, accusingly. "That's what you were doing at the contest!"

"I was not. _You_ were trying to get me to laugh!"

" _You_ were trying to seduce me!"

She laughs, digging in for another bite. "Well, if that's the way I've started looking at you without even realizing it, we're really in trouble."

"Maybe that's just what I want to see."

"A little of both, probably," she concedes. She grabs the remote from the nightstand and turns on the news.

"Oh, don't do that," he grimaces.

"Why? I want to see you come to my rescue again." She laughs, bumping his shoulder with hers playfully.

He shakes his head, filling his mouth with pie. "Oh, by the way, my new campaign manager thinks your bodyguard is sexy."

"Does she? Did she really say that to you?"

"Yep. She... speaks her mind," he says, raising his eyebrows. "I think he has a thing for you, though."

"Why do you say that?"

"I noticed that at the fair today. He flirts with you shamelessly."

"Well, too bad if he does." She gives him a long meaningful look, then leans in to kiss him, savoring the taste of cinnamon on his mouth.

When she pulls away again, he asks quietly, "You knew about the Palin endorsement ahead of time, didn't you?"

"What? No."

"Pretty interesting timing, beating me to the punch with Hillary by a few hours."

"Oh, I thought so, too," she shrugs, pointedly staring at the television instead of him.

"Maybe we're just on the same wavelength."

"Must be."

"Or you're eavesdropping on my meetings."

"Kurt!"

"I was confused about it until I noticed yesterday that I had placed a twenty-minute phone call to you that I couldn't remember."

"You called me!"

"You didn't have to listen!"

She looks at him closely, debating whether he is upset about it or not. He does look slightly annoyed. He also looks like he thinks she is adorable when she tests a thin smile out on him. 

"It's politics, Kurt. If I find out something that's going to help my campaign, I won't hesitate to use it. And neither should you."

"So you wouldn't be upset if I used something I learned through our private relationship?" He drops his voice lower, his fingers playing at the edges of her robe.

"I wouldn't hold it against you," she says, sighing as his hand dips beneath the fabric, slowly running over her skin, cupping one breast in his hand. 

She turns into his touch, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

"No," he whispers, lowering his lips to her bared neck, murmuring against her skin, "I don't hold it against you."

She slips her arm around his waist as he trails kisses down her neck, encouraging her closer to him, and it all could so easily start all over again... until the news report catches her attention:

> _We have eyewitness video and reports from the Effingham County Fair today, where Gubernatorial candidates Diane Lockhart and Kurt McVeigh were both participating in events. Lockhart, as is well known, has been plagued by violent death threats for the past several weeks. And whether you plan to vote for her in November or not, everyone can agree we would like to see the madman caught – no one, it turns out, more than McVeigh himself._

She pulls back, but keeps her head on his shoulder as a cell phone video of the incident plays. "I can see why you thought he was dangerous – his hands in his pockets like that."

“Stop,” he says, wincing.

> _"He just came running at the guy out of nowhere!" a witness reports, gesturing wildly. "And he just, like, had him on the ground in two seconds flat."_
> 
> _"It was heroic, what he did today. Kurt McVeigh is true American hero,” another says fervently._

"Yeah, they're really going to run with the cowboy thing now," Kurt grumbles.

"I'm so sorry," she buries her laughter against his shoulder.

> _"But as it turned out, the attacker was only a fan, and the gun McVeigh thought he saw was just an autograph book."_
> 
> _"He's one of those crazy right wingers, who resort to violence before they even hear the facts," another witness says._

Kurt shakes his head. “This is so much worse than I remembered.”

“It's not so bad,” she tries to reassure him, but her continued laughter undercuts the words somewhat.

The video of the incident turns to the two of them talking quietly, their conversation thankfully drowned out by the shouts of the crowd. But she sees more clearly now on the screen than she realized in that moment how genuinely concerned he is, how absorbed he is in her – and she in him. If he had not already said it, she would have known it now, written so plainly on his face in a language she hopes only she can read... that he has feelings for her.

And she sees it reflected just as plainly in her own face, looking back at him. 

She clicks off the television as the report ends, almost afraid to meet his gaze and see it there again.

"Did you get a good laugh?" he asks, smiling over at her ruefully.

"I'm not laughing now," she says softly, leaning in to kiss him again, pulling his face to hers. 

And then it all starts all over again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sliiiiiiiiiight nsfw warning

"Oh, no.” Diane leans back in her chair as soon as she notices Eli and Kalinda standing in the doorway. “Any time the two of you come to talk to me, it's bad news.”

“This time, it's good news,” Eli says, not waiting for any more of an invitation to enter. “Well – it's good news, with a bit of a dark twist.”

“Okay,” Diane draws out the word, looking from one to the other suspiciously. 

“Kalinda, I think you should have the honor of telling her the good part.”

Kalinda smiles. "Diane, there is no reason for you to remain under protection any longer."

"What do you mean?" she asks, unable to quite believe what she is hearing.

"You're free, you're safe!” Eli exclaims. “It's all over, Diane."

"You mean they caught the maniac who was writing the letters?"

“That's the thing,” Kalinda says slowly, shifting in her seat. “Let me start at the beginning. Two days ago, I determined that it was one of our college volunteers, a kid named Denny Reynolds, who leaked the letter to the press initially. When I looked into him, I found that his whole family are lifelong Republican supporters and donors. And he is no black sheep – he is a member of the Young Republicans at school.”

“He's a Canning/Lee plant, Diane,” Eli bursts out. “He's been spying on us.”

“I have evidence of him meeting with a consultant from the Lyman campaign, multiple times,” Kalinda says quietly, laying out on Diane's desk a series of photographs showing the two men meeting at a diner.

Diane's eyes go wide as she connects the dots. “So wait a minute, are you saying--”

“That's the dark twist,” Eli nods.

“You're telling me this kid knew about the letters because someone at Canning/Lee tipped him off to them, and they knew about it because – what, _they've_ been writing them?”

“Yes,” Eli says darkly. "You remember last week, it occurred to me that they don't need Howard Lyman to look like a great candidate to win – they just need to discredit you and McVeigh. And that's exactly what they've been trying to do."

“This is insane.” Diane looks down at the photographs with disgust and growing anger. “Well, can't we expose them? Lyman's campaign would be finished!"

"The thing is, Diane, we can't prove it. There's nothing we can do to this kid--” 

“Being a dirty mole isn't illegal,” Eli interrupts bitterly.

“And we can't prove they're behind the letters. It's all circumstantial.” 

"And there's a very good chance it could backfire if we try, like we're just throwing around wild accusations."

"Unbelievable,” Diane says, feeling as powerless now as she did when she believed her life was in danger. “And all of this just to scare me, distract me, make me look weak?”

"Repulsive as it is, it was effective,” Eli concedes. “A lot of voters and commentators are rumbling about exactly that. McVeigh isn't helping either, of course, but since this all started you've lost 7 points in the polls."

She feels sick. "Dear God. What's the latest?"

"You at 33, Lyman at 30, McVeigh at 29."

All within the margin of error, and eight percent undecided. No one needs to comment for her to grasp what a blow that is. 

Diane smiles grimly. "But this is a good news day, right?"

As she lets this sink in throughout the morning, Diane can and yet cannot believe it. She knows Canning and Lee fight dirty, she had been prepared for hateful personal attacks, lies and distortions, but she never would have imagined they could be capable of this. Worse still, if they are capable of this, what will they do next? Surely they have not played their strongest hand yet. 

And returning to a normal life – as normal a life as campaigns ever allow – will be odd after all this. She moves through the office unescorted now and it is disorienting every time she leaves a room, half-expecting a guard to come jogging after her, scolding her for trying to shake him. It had become so ingrained to be always looking over her shoulder, so unremarkable to have someone following two feet behind her. She isn't going to miss it, but it will be an adjustment to come and go freely. 

“Diane?” 

She looks up to see Jack standing in her doorway. She won't miss any of it, no, but in an odd way she finds she will miss him. 

She smiles and stands, gesturing for him to come in. "Have they already given you your walking papers?"

He nods. "Came to say goodbye – no tears, now."

“Thank you, for everything you've done for me over the past few weeks. You certainly have a way of... making the most of a bad situation, let's say.”

“It was my pleasure,” he grins back at her. "So I guess you're free to see your beau unchaperoned now."

"That's not the only reason I'm grateful to you."

"Well, that's nice to hear. Anyway, I'm not one for long goodbyes, so. Goodbye, Diane." He winks at her and starts to go. But he pauses in the doorway, turning around again. "You know, if things don't work out with your man, you might look me up."

She gives him a look that says if she had something close at hand she'd chuck it at him. Laughing, he disappears down the hall. 

Diane returns to her desk, shaking her head and chuckling to herself. But now that he mentions it, that does sound like the most natural way to readjust to her freedom that she can imagine. 

She pulls out her cell phone and texts Kurt:

> _I'm a free woman – care to help me celebrate?  
>  Forget the hooded sweatshirt._

….............

He brought her a bottle of champagne to celebrate, and they took it straight to bed.

She pours the last of it into his glass now, beginning to go flat after sitting opened and forgotten on the nightstand while they were lost in one another. She kisses him after he takes a sip – flat, perhaps, but still delicious.

He smiles back at her, sleepy and satisfied. "Now that you're free, what do you think about coming out to my place this weekend? Since campaign headquarters moved, it's very quiet."

Her eyes go a little wide at the suggestion – it strikes her as much more intimate than a night at her apartment or a hotel room they'll never return to. A _weekend_ , out in his country home. "I'm doing a round of interviews on Sunday. But I'm free Saturday."

It happens to be true, but she feels as if she has lied. A weekend – what on earth would they do for a whole weekend, anyway? Aside from the obvious...

"Come over Friday night?"

"Sure, okay," she agrees quickly, then pulls away, grabbing the television remote from the nightstand. "I'm sorry, I'm hopelessly addicted."

"You'll be cut off at my place," he laughs, running his lips over her shoulder as she settles down beside him again. He trails kisses to her neck and slowly down her spine, tugging her robe free of her again as he goes.

"Oh, God," she sighs, closing her eyes softly. In another moment, she won't have a thought left for the news or any uncertainty she feels about the weekend.

> _"Tonight we have an exclusive interview with Alexis Cahill, former volunteer for the McVeigh campaign..."_

That, however, wrenches her attention back to the television screen. 

"Kurt..." Grudgingly, she pulls his hands away, squeezing them. "You might want to watch this."

He shifts onto his stomach, stretching out beside her, draping one arm across her leg. "What could possibly be more important..."

He stops in his tracks when he recognizes Alexis, sitting across from a reporter. 

> _"Ms Cahill, you were recently let go from the McVeigh campaign. You allege that you were released under troubling circumstances."_
> 
> _"Kurt McVeigh recently hired a new campaign manager, and when she came in, she cleaned house."_
> 
> _"Were you let go for performance-related reasons?"_
> 
> _"No. I was fired because I was a... distraction.”_
> 
> _“How do you mean, a distraction?”_
> 
> _“Before, the atmosphere at the campaign office was different. More informal. We were all friends. To be honest, it was kind of like a big party a lot of the time, but with a purpose."_
> 
> _"A big party?"_
> 
> _"Yeah. We got our work done, but there was always beer and dancing, and people hooking up upstairs."_

"What the hell? She's making this up." Kurt gets to his feet, suddenly angry. “Once in a while on a Friday or Saturday night we'd all have a couple of beers together – she's making it sound like it was every day. There was no... _hooking up_."

Diane glances back and forth between the screen and Kurt, who is now pacing in agitation. She knows this is about to get a lot worse for him.

> _"Kurt McVeigh attracts a young, idealistic crowd of supporters – did that contribute to the atmosphere there?"_
> 
> _"Yeah. Absolutely, yeah. He was like one of us."_
> 
> _"So Mr McVeigh not only permitted but actively participated in these drinking and dancing sessions."_
> 
> _"Yeah."_
> 
> _"And the... hooking up, as you put it?"_
> 
> _"Yeah."_

"What is she doing? This is a lie!"

Diane watches, horrified as this young woman seems dead set on tearing Kurt down. She can't be sure whether she would have had any doubts before today – but now it is absolutely clear to her what is behind this. She wondered what Canning and Lee would do next. She is positive she is looking at it now.

> _"Can you tell us more about that – what was Kurt McVeigh's relationship with his young staffers, and with you?"_
> 
> _"A lot of us were so inspired by him, we were completely under his spell. We would do anything to please him. But when he got tired of us, he would discard us and move on to the next."_
> 
> _"To be perfectly clear: are you alleging that Kurt McVeigh engaged in a sexual relationship with you?"_
> 
> _"Yeah. And that's why I was fired. That's why we were all fired."_

"Diane, this isn't true." He turns to her, insistent, as if his first instinct is to make sure they are all right before it even occurs to him to make sure his campaign is all right.

She makes her way around the bed to stand beside him. "I know. It's the Lyman campaign. They're trying to destroy you just like they tried to destroy me."

He shakes his head, stunned. "You think they bought her off?"

Somehow, after all he has seen in this campaign, he is still slow to believe the worst of people. "I'm sure they did."

She realizes Lyman has been laying the groundwork for this for weeks, making insinuations about Kurt's female volunteers in the press, and they didn't hesitate when they saw a chance to turn a disgruntled supporter to their side. But she has seen him out drinking with them – to people who want to see it, it could have the _look_ of impropriety. He has never cared about how a thing looks, and she admires him for it, but it may prove to be his downfall.

Kurt's phone rings, muffled and distant. He fumbles around in the semi-darkness for his pants, hastily discarded by the door. 

"Hello? Yeah, I'm watching it."

Diane cringes, half-watching as the interview goes on, half-listening to his side of the phone conversation. She can't make out the words, but she can tell it is Jennifer Barkley, screaming at him. She can easily imagine what she has to say.

"Well, it's not true. No, not a single word of it is true," he says quietly but definitely. She doesn't know if she could remain as calm as he is, if she were in his place. She doesn't think she could remain calm now, on his behalf. "Yeah. I know. … Of course. Yeah, I'll be ready. … First thing in the morning."

He ends the call and just stands there, as if in complete shock. She crosses the room, lacing the fingers of one hand in his, waiting for him to speak.

"My campaign is over," he says finally.

"Absolutely not. You're going to fight back,” she says fiercely, squeezing his hand. “You have other campaign workers who will tell the truth, right? Even the others who were let go will come forward. In a day or two it will be obvious to everyone that this was all lies."

"A lot of damage can be done in a day or two."

She opens and closes her mouth uselessly – she cannot honestly argue with him. The damage can be contained, but it will have an impact. "I'm so sorry, Kurt. They really will stop at nothing to win."

"You know, it's funny," he goes on, barely hearing her. "When I first met with Jennifer Barkley, I swore I would be the least scandal-prone candidate she ever worked for. Then a week later, this happened. And here I am, sleeping with the opposition."

He can't help but smile feebly at that, which she returns in kind.

"You can bounce back from this," she says.

"Are you sure you want me to? This could knock out your competition too, you know."

"After all this? I'd much rather see you destroy him." She laughs. "But still, God help us all if either of you win."

He smiles again, more strongly now. "Thank you," he says softly, leaning down to kiss her lightly.

"Of course," she says, kissing him back.

He sighs, frustrated, pulling away. "Right now, I'm fed up with just about everyone and everything except you. But I'd better go, and start cleaning this up."

She nods and they gather up his things, indulging in a few last stolen kisses and touches as he puts his clothes back on, she acting more as hindrance than help to him now.

As they walk toward the door, he says, "I don't know if it's a good idea under the circumstances, but I still want you to come over this weekend. If you still want to."

"I still want to," she smiles back at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer one last time. The prospect of a weekend in the country doesn't seem so frightening now – not compared to the threat of losing it.

"Good," he says, embracing her and breathing deeply into her hair for long moments before he goes, as if drawing strength and comfort from her. 

That is frightening, too, she realizes as she watches him walk toward the elevator. Frightening, but wonderful.


	22. Chapter 22

The next morning, Diane follows the press reaction closely. Predictably, it is being sensationalized and heavily promoted locally – the networks' graphics departments obviously working overtime to create mashups of Kurt and Alexis standing close or seemingly fighting. Nationally, political analysts go straight to outright mockery, while Illinois politicians from both parties make stirring speeches about ethical conduct. All of it makes her sick to her stomach.

And now he has to face a day of hostile interviews – the first, she glances down at her watch, in about ten minutes.

Her cell phone rings. She is surprised to see that it is Kurt.

“Hello?” Paranoid, she gets up and closes the door. 

“Hey,” he says simply.

“Hey,” she returns, needling him, smiling to herself.

“I'm just about to go on the morning news on Channel 2.” He is trying to sound casual, but she can hear the strain in his voice. “I thought maybe you could distract me, since you're so good at that.”

She turns her back to the door. It won't do for anyone to see her grinning like an idiot through the glass. “If you need to focus on something else for a few minutes, think about how much you would rather be in my bed.”

“Yeah, that'd probably work.”

“It's what I do when I find myself trapped in a boring meeting,” she laughs, then turns serious. “You were good, the statement you gave this morning.”

“Yeah, but I didn't have to take any questions.” He lets out a long nervous breath. “Do you have any last-minute words of wisdom?”

She shakes her head in amused astonishment – she cannot believe she is really advising the opposition. “Keep calm, keep your answers brief, and don't waver. They're going to try to catch you admitting any hint of impropriety. Don't give it to them.”

“That's good. Thanks. Well – they're ready for me.”

“I'll be watching,” she says, her voice warm and, she hopes, reassuring. “Good luck.”

_I'll be watching._ She rolls her eyes at herself. What a ridiculous thing to say. She will be, of course, and she would have been (perhaps gleefully) if she were only his rival. But what she really said was _I'm here; I'm in your corner._ And she said it expecting that it would mean something to him. 

She shrugs it off, clicking on the television. The anchor is just now doing the lead-in to the interview, replaying a clip of Ms Cahill's words the night before. She perches on the edge of her desk, imagining this is the last thing Kurt is seeing, too.

> _"Mr McVeigh, we wanted to give you a chance to respond to Alexis Cahill's allegations. Could you describe what your relationship with her was like?"_
> 
> _"She was a student of mine last year, and then she became a volunteer for my campaign."_
> 
> _"Was your relationship with her a sexual one, at any point?"_
> 
> _"No."_
> 
> _"Would you say there was anything about your relationship that could have been misconstrued--"_
> 
> _"Absolutely not. My relationship with all of my students and volunteers has always been friendly, but strictly professional."_

Diane finds herself nodding, silently cheering him along. So far he is remaining calm, but firm. She knows he is nervous, terrified – but she is sure no one else could see it.

> _“According to Ms Cahill, until recently your campaign headquarters was a setting for drinking and partying. What do you say in response to that?”_
> 
> _“There was no partying. To my knowledge, there was never any, as she puts it, 'hooking up.' On occasion, at the end of the day, we would have a few beers, nothing that any campaign--”_
> 
> _“Do you feel you became too personally close to your staff in any way?”_
> 
> _“In retrospect, given how this has played out, there are things I would have done differently.”_

Diane cringes at that. He has said exactly what she told him not to – and now that will be the only soundbyte anyone remembers from this interview.

> _"Have you engaged in a sexual relationship with anyone on your campaign?"_
> 
> _"No."_
> 
> _"Are you involved with anyone, outside your campaign?"_
> 
> _"Yes."_
> 
> _"Can we hear more about her?"_
> 
> _"Nope."_

Diane stands, shaking her head but unable to suppress the smile that is slowly coming over her face. He glances directly at the camera for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirking upward too.

She didn't think she needed to advise him that now would not be the best time to flirt with her over the air.

> _"Mr McVeigh, I respect your right to privacy, but I do think any candor you might offer on this subject would help to put some voters' fears to rest--"_
> 
> _"I don't know if you or anyone else does respect my right to privacy today. I will only say that I have not engaged in a relationship with anyone that is at all improper or that has any bearing on my campaign."_
> 
> _"Do you think voters have a right to some insight into your personal life?"_
> 
> _"I think voters deserve to hear from me that Ms Cahill's allegations about how my campaign is or was run are completely false. They deserve to hear that I have not had a sexual relationship with anyone who works for me, took a class from me, or who is in any way in a subordinate position to me. Aside from that, who I choose to spend my time with is a private matter between the two of us."_

Diane sighs, letting go of some of her own nervousness now that it is over. He did well, but yet again she feels his honesty and forthrightness could be his own undoing. She wishes he hadn't given an inch in admitting any poor judgment. And now he has created some “mystery woman” for the Lyman camp and the press to chew on, and that may not play well with some voters at all. Even now, she isn't sure she agrees that their relationship has nothing to do with the campaign. But she is glad he said it; she cannot quite bring herself to wish he could take it back.

Not a minute after the interview ends, Eli barges into her office. "Did you see it?"

Diane nods. There is no question of what he is referring to – he _is_ gleeful. "What do you think, how big of a hit will he take?"

"We have polling going on right now. I'd say five points at a minimum. At worst, he's all but out of the race. Some people are going to love him for his 'right to privacy' stance, others are going to think he's hiding something."

If he only knew, she thinks, fighting off a smirk.

"And do those points swing to me or to Lyman?"

"Could be a tossup. But anyone who really cares who their Governor sleeps with? Lyman's the one selling himself as Mr Family Values and casting you as some kind of wild and wanton single woman. Which is funny, because I don't know if you've had a date in the last two years."

"Yes, funny," she says sarcastically. _If he only knew._

She considers what she said to him last night – she would rather see him destroy Lyman than the other way around. She doesn't want to help his campaign, exactly, but if Eli is right that most of his lost support would go to Lyman and not her, she can't see what she has to lose. It's only a political calculation, a move as much for her own benefit as for his. She tells herself this.

"What is going on with you?" Eli asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What do you mean?" 

"You're always distracted lately."

She ignores his remark, recovering quickly. "I was just thinking... I'm going to say something."

"About what?"

"Decrying this kind of attack."

"Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because it's the dirtiest kind of trick, Eli. It's the same kind of thing they did to me with the letters. If I can't talk about that, then I'll talk about this."

"But why would you do it to help McVeigh--"

"Not to help him. To stand up for the kind of campaigning I believe in. And I'll come out of it looking like the noble one."

It sounds like a feeble explanation when she says it out loud. But she's still going to do it.

“Do you owe a favor to any reporters?” she asks.

Eli shakes his head adamantly. “Diane, no.”

An hour later, she leaves campaign headquarters, hailing a cab. A reporter hurries up to her on the street in what will look exactly like an ambush.

“Ms Lockhart, do you have any comment on the recent allegations of sexual impropriety in the McVeigh campaign?”

Diane whirls around, looking momentarily surprised to see the camera and the microphone. She brushes her hair back, nodding grimly. 

“This is politics, pure and simple. Corrupt, cynical, Chicago-style politics. I believe that lies are being told about Kurt McVeigh to tear him down, the kind of lies that appeal to the most base, voyeuristic side of human nature. I know Illinois voters are going to see this cheap attack for exactly what it is. And it's exactly this kind of sleazy politics that my administration will put an end to.”

With a toss of her hair, she ducks into the waiting cab, smiling with satisfaction as she gives the address. Eli should be pleased, after all – she even found a way to spin it into a quick campaign ad.

Her statement airs on the evening news, next to the outpouring of support from other McVeigh staffers, both current and former, that she promised him would come. In direct juxtaposition to Lyman's confused raving on the subject, she thinks – she hopes – what she said might just be true. Surely most voters will see right through this. 

Immediately after the news story airs, her phone vibrates. She smiles down at his words. No matter how this plays out, she could never regret making that statement now.

> _Thank you for that._

> _Of course.  
>  See you tomorrow night?_

> _Only thing I'm looking forward to right now._


	23. Chapter 23

It is late by the time Diane arrives, later than she had hoped. Not for the first time, Eli had waylaid her when she wanted to sneak off quietly with Kurt. As she drives, she makes a meager attempt at reproaching herself for putting this above her campaign. But she cannot pretend even to herself that she is sorry about any of this. 

When she pulls into his long driveway, he comes jogging out, guiding her into the garage, helping her with her bags.

"I knew you were out in the country, but wow," she laughs as she follows him in. 

"Some of those roads get a little treacherous at night, I know.”

He closes the door behind them and finds himself confronted with her bemused smile. Their remarks are almost so banal that there is nothing to say in response. 

There is always this moment of awkwardness when they first meet now, as if unsure of the proper greeting. They are past the point of frantic, uncontrollable kisses the moment they see one another. But a quick, reflexive peck never feels feels right, either; that is too established, and they are not _dating_ , they are not a _couple_ (are they?). 

She settles finally on taking his face in both hands and pulling him toward her, soundly, lingeringly, and very _intentionally_ kissing him.

“Hello,” she says softly as she draws back.

“Hello,” he returns, a satisfied smirk where her lips had been. He seems a little lost for a moment, until she raises her eyebrows slightly, a gently mocking expression, and he remembers himself.

"So, um, this is the place." He steps aside and waves one arm vaguely, as if uncertain whether she would be interested in seeing more.

"It's charming, Kurt," she says, shrugging out of her jacket and letting him hang it up while she wanders into the living room, admiring the stone and wood work, the cozy fire she imagines they will soon be curled up beside. 

"You don't have to say that."

"No, I mean it. It's not my taste, exactly, but I can certainly see the appeal." She smiles, turning back toward him. “It seems like you.”

“You know, half the time, I can't tell if you're making fun of me or not.”

“Half the time, I'm not,” she smiles back, drifting closer to him again. 

He allows her only so close, then pulls back, teasing her now. "Would you like a drink? Now that you're on my turf, I'm afraid I only have beer to offer."

"That's fine by me."

She takes a closer look as he ducks into the kitchen, noticing he displays no personal photographs, just a framed antique map on the wall, a few odd knickknacks scattered about. The walls are still lined with campaign signs that have not yet made it to the new headquarters, his dining room table piled with stacks of papers she assumes is work. The place is beautiful, but utilitarian, unmistakably the home of a single man who has lived alone for a long time. 

"Here you go." He reappears at her side, extending one bottle to her. 

"Thanks," she smiles, clinking hers against his. She takes a long drink, turning serious. "So – how are you doing with all this?"

He lets out a long, frustrated breath. "God, let's sit down for that."

Kurt leads her toward the couch in front of the fireplace, sitting down in one corner that looks more worn than the rest of it. She imagines that has been his spot for years, night after night, and that it is a much rarer event for someone to be sitting next to him as she is now, turned toward him, her legs curled comfortably beneath her. 

She extends one arm across the back of the couch, her hand just grazing his shoulder. She sips her beer, waiting for him to speak. 

He sighs at last. "I've had a lot of nasty mail and calls – nothing like yours, of course. Lot of people calling me everything from an abuser to a pedophile to a sex maniac."

She makes an exaggerated display of considering this. "Well, I wouldn't call you a _maniac_ , quite, but..."

He swats at her leg playfully, letting his hand rest there. "A lot of support too, though. I think most reasonable people understand this is dirty politics. Your statement helped."

"Well, it was the least I could do. You did the same for me."

"I still appreciate it, Diane," he says softly. 

He looks her in the eye steadily as he says this, then looks away, into the fire. She lets him think, staring off at the fire, too, her fingertips slowly brushing across his neck now, combing through his hair soothingly. He traces small circles on her knee. 

"I know you warned me about all this,” he says after a while. “I thought I was thicker-skinned, but I guess I'm not."

"You're still an idealist. You believe in the process, and you think you can make it better." She continues to massage his scalp lightly, turning toward him again. "It's the process itself that's broken. And there's not very much you can do about it."

He nods slowly, still staring off at the fire. "But I still have to do this. Is that crazy?"

"You're the same kind of crazy I am, I think," she laughs gently.

He turns to look at her again, finding a small smile for her that makes her heart melt.

“I don't know if it was crazy or brilliant when you brought up the mystery woman in your life,” she shifts the subject slightly, taking on a sterner, if still teasing manner.

“Oh, I thought you'd like that,” he says, a little smugly.

“I _did_ – and it has distracted the press a bit from your other troubles.”

“Yes,” he says simply, perhaps sensing that she is going somewhere unpleasant with this.

“The trouble is, Kurt, they are now very interested in knowing who she is.”

“No one's going to find out anything,” he laughs, but there is an edge to it, and he turns away from her again.

She lets it rest there. The only thing that occurs to her to say is an admonishing _"This isn't a game"_ , to which she can only imagine him responding _"I'm not playing a game"_ with a sincerity she is not prepared to hear. She plots their conversation out like a defensive chess game, avoiding the more powerful pieces.

She drains her beer, leaning forward to set it down on the coffee table. When she begins to sit back, she feels his hand on her back, smoothing over her gently. She relaxes into his touch, closing her eyes slowly. The tenderness of his touch is somehow much easier to accept than the tenderness of his words, though in some corner of her mind she knows they amount to the same thing. 

When she leans back against the couch fully, she looks over at him, finding him smiling lightly again. But it fades and hardens into something she doesn't quite recognize a moment later – something questioning and uncertain. 

"What?" she asks softly.

If there was a particular question in his mind, he is keeping it to himself for now. But he inclines his head slightly toward his side of the couch, an invitation.

Smiling, she uncurls her legs and shifts nearer to him, leaning her head against his shoulder and allowing him to wrap his arm around her. She lets her shoes drop to the floor. His fingertips slowly trace the line of her arm, up and down, a few times, then come to rest at her hip, prompting her to snuggle closer still. This time as she watches the fire, more warmed by him, she has the sense that if this isn't quite meeting things head-on, it isn't quite avoidance either.

After a while like this, the beer and the fire and the company conspire to make her drift off. 

She has no idea how much time has passed when her eyes open again, but the fire is still burning, and neither of them has moved, so it must not have been long. 

She makes a little groaning noise, turning her face against his shoulder. "I think I fell asleep."

"You did. I've been in and out, too."

She reaches behind her and pulls down the blanket draped across the back of the couch, arranging it over them both.

He yawns. "I have a comfortable bed, but it feels so far away right now."

"I'm very cozy right here," she says, giving him room to adjust so that he is lying behind her, his back to the couch, her back to him. Only after they have settled – his arm coiled around her side, his face fitting neatly between her shoulder and neck – does she realize how unbelievably intimate this is. Her mind rattles off a list of superlatives and firsts: the closest she has allowed him to hold her, the first time they have met like this without having sex, the first time they have actually slept overnight together. Perhaps she is just exhausted, but she acknowledges and quickly puts these thoughts out of her mind.

Perhaps she is just exhausted, but she falls asleep again almost instantly.

 

….............

 

Diane wakes again, later, momentarily confused by her surroundings, but quickly remembering. The fire has died down, so she gathers some time has passed. But his arm is still securely around her, his breath warm against her neck, a long snore coming from him now and then. That is probably what woke her. She rolls her eyes at herself as the thought flits through her mind that even _that_ seems charming tonight.

Careful not to disturb him, she disentangles herself from his embrace, padding down the hall in search of his bathroom. 

When she comes back out, she can tell by his breathing that he is still sound asleep. She goes into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water. As she drinks it, she wanders around again, ridiculous ideas occurring to her of how she would decorate if she had a chance. It is not her place, of course, and she would not want to change its basic character, absolutely not, but she can think of ways he might personalize it more, bring it all together with a few well-chosen pieces. 

She comes to the dining room table, again noticing the stacks of papers, notebooks and campaign materials. She glances at just the top page of one pile, left in plain sight. It appears to be notes, talking points – preparation for the next debate, she realizes. She looks over at him again, waiting for another snore to be positive he is asleep. She looks back at the stack of papers.

She told him this was politics. She told him she wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of what she learned through their personal relationship. Actively digging for things to use was perhaps a step beyond that – but still, all's fair, she tells herself. It isn't quite ethical, but it isn't altogether _wrong_ , either. Like the phone call, he has left this all out in the open for her. He should take greater care, if he doesn't want her to see.

She picks up one stack of papers, scanning the top page and flipping through quickly. She isn't looking for anything in particular, just something she can use. Something she can undercut him with in the next debate, the set-up for a zinger or two she can throw back at him. He will be more confident going into the next one, and if she can just shoot him down once or twice she can easily get the upper hand back –

Before she gets very far, one paper, smaller than the others, falls free of the stack. She picks it up from the floor, and realizes it is a card. It takes her a second to recognize that it is _her_ card, the simple thank you note she included with the book she sent him – weeks ago.

Weeks ago, and he still has it here, in between papers he has been reviewing over the last few days.

She replaces the card about as far back as she can remember it falling from, squares the pages, and puts the whole stack back where she found it. 

She can't. She just can't do it.

She runs a hand through her hair as she walks back to the couch, trying not to dwell on the card and how thoroughly it unnerved her. She finds he has slumped over in her absence, blocking her from slipping back in beside him. She pushes his shoulder gently, then more forcibly. "Hey," she whispers.

He makes a sleepy humming noise, shifting in response, but only to take up more space on the couch. She sits on the edge of the cushion and shoves him, hard. He wakes up with a start now.

"What--? What's wrong?"

"Shh, nothing," she laughs. "You were hogging the couch."

"I'm sorry," he says sheepishly. "You want to go upstairs now?"

She shrugs. "As long as we're up."

He sits and stretches. "Do you need anything?"

"No, I found the bathroom and the kitchen."

“Good. Make yourself at home.”

She takes great pains to ignore that, too.

Kurt leads the way upstairs, and she is just awake enough now to feel a little flash of excitement at the immediate prospect of seeing his bed – of sleeping in his bed. 

His bedroom is much like the downstairs, all wood and minimalist décor. The room is large, but he has only the essential furnishings: a set of dressers, a nightstand, and a bed that looks very inviting indeed, covered in a quilt and flannel sheets. It is only a full-size – but she is growing accustomed to his closeness. And directly above the bed, a skylight built into the sloped roof. 

“Oh, that's gorgeous, Kurt,” she says, moving around to the far side of the bed, looking up at it.

“Cost a fortune to put it in,” he grumbles as he turns down the covers. “But it was worth it.”

“I'll say.” She marvels up at it, seeing more stars from this vantage point, out here away from the city, than she can remember seeing in her whole life.

"Let me get you an extra pillow or two," he says, moving toward the closet.

"I'm fine, really."

"Will you let me make you comfortable here?"

She laughs heartily – sure, if he insists. She strips down to her slip, her nightgown and toiletries forgotten downstairs. All she really has the energy for now is getting into that bed. He comes back carrying three extra pillows, and she struggles to keep a straight face – he is trying too hard, perhaps, to make her comfortable, but she knows this is important to him. But he is staring at her body now under the filmy garment, almost forgetting for a moment what the pillows were for. 

She crawls into bed, leaning over and snatching just one pillow from him, leaving him to stand there gaping back at her awkwardly. She lies down, snuggling against his flannel sheets, letting him take all the time he needs to catch up. He seems to be satisfied just watching her move in his bed.

Finally he snaps out of it, setting the other pillows down on the chest at the end of the bed. Now she watches with keen interest as he undresses down to his undershirt and shorts. He turns out the light, sliding under the covers beside her. She turns to face him, too, her hands reaching out instinctively to touch him. God, sometimes, he is so handsome she can barely stand it. 

"Now that we're here, I don't feel so tired anymore," he says, a smirk slowly spreading across his face.

"Neither do I," she replies, deadly serious as she clenches his shirt in her hands and pulls him to her under the glow of moonlight.


	24. Chapter 24

“Oh my God, Kurt, they're not going to leave.”

Diane paces back and forth in his living room, her arms crossed, careful to stay well clear of any windows. For three hours and counting now, there have been television crews parked out on his street, taking all the romance out of the last cup of coffee they had planned to share out on his back porch before she left. They appear to be determined to identify Kurt's mystery woman, and Diane isn't going anywhere.

“They'll get bored sometime,” he says lightly, waving it away.

“Sure, and I suppose you have enough meat in the freezer to last us all winter, but that's not going to help the fact that I have three interviews scheduled this afternoon!”

“Want to try the old hooded sweatshirt routine?” He tries to joke to lighten the mood, but it only makes her more anxious.

“They'll still get my license plate, Kurt.”

“I know, I know.” He frowns, moving toward the window, squinting down at the road. “I'm going to go out there.”

“And what, try to reason with them?”

He shrugs and grabs his jacket. It isn't much, but he has to _do_ something.

She sighs, walking back over to the couch and collapsing back into it. She sits on his side – it _is_ cozier, and it smells faintly of him. She curls her legs underneath her, trying to get comfortable, trying to stay calm. Trying, above all, to quiet the self-recriminations that have begun to ricochet around her brain: she should have known better, she was crazy to come here, she risked too much, and for what?

She immediately regrets even thinking that: _for what_. It is hard to say if it was worth it – the final determination may depend upon whether they get away with it or not – but either way, it was wonderful. There is no taking that back now. 

She had admired the skylight by morning, too, waiting as he brought breakfast back to bed (and afterward, moving beneath him again). She had no idea what they would make of a full day together, expecting to find they had nothing to discuss or do outside of politics and sex. But the time passed easily; he took her on a long hike, she showed him a little yoga, and they made dinner together. They were careful to avoid talk of the campaign, but not even that could derail such a lovely weekend. Inevitably one of them would slip and make a politically charged comment and it would lead to a fight and that would lead to kisses and it would start all over again.

It was all almost perfect in their own little world, but now they are back to the reality of who they are, and who they are is the reason why she is afraid to so much as poke her head outside.

Kurt comes back in, swearing under his breath, hanging up his jacket.

“They're not going anywhere,” he scowls. 

She gives him a twisted sort of smile, miserable, but grateful to him for trying. “I told you.”

“No basic decency, no respect for privacy. Can I outlaw this behavior, if I win?”

“I don't think so,” she laughs despite the stress, reaching out her hand over the back of the couch for him.

He walks over and takes her hand in his, his other hand massaging her shoulder. “Can you reschedule the interviews? Say you were sick?”

“It would be easy enough to question and disprove,” she shakes her head. “You sure you aren't just trying to keep me here for your own gain?”

“Oh, I am, but more personal than political,” he says, giving her shoulder a meaningful squeeze. 

She sighs, ducking away from his touch and coming to stand. “Besides, they'll still be here tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know how to get you out of here, Diane.”

“I should have known this might happen. I shouldn't have come.” She starts to pace again, voicing her worst thoughts.

“Diane, there's no way you could have known...”

“I've been acting like a fool,” she says, turning to face him, her voice hard. “I've made so many mistakes, we both have, over this.”

She sees the hurt on his face as he nods slightly, turning away. She sees the hurt and immediately wishes she hadn't said it, stopping herself before she adds the horrible phrase she can't get entirely out of her own mind – _And for what?_

She lets out a little scream of frustration then. “I'm going to have to call him. I don't know what else to do.”

“Call who?”

“Eli,” she grimaces. “Maybe he can create a distraction of some kind. He has ways of getting things done.”

“Are you serious?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I don't want to, but I don't know what else to do.”

She goes to her purse on the table and pulls out her cell phone, staring down at it for a few seconds, weighing one bad option against another.

Diane takes a deep breath, and calls. Eli picks up before the first ring has even completed.

“Where the hell are you?” he says in place of 'hello.' “You were supposed to be here an hour ago for prep.”

“That's the thing,” she says slowly, casting a sideways glance over at Kurt. “I'm stuck and I need your help.”

“You're _stuck_?”

“There are reporters everywhere here. I can't get out without being seen.”

“And where are you exactly?”

She cringes. “I'm at Kurt McVeigh's farm.”

The line goes completely silent after that.

“Eli?” she prompts him warily. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I'm here. I'm here, trying to decide whether I'm going to get you out of this or walk out the door right now.”

“Eli--”

“How bad is it, Diane, is it making a deal with the enemy bad, or is it--” He stops suddenly, realizing. “ _Oh my God_.”

“Eli, we can talk about it later, but first--”

“ _You're_ the mystery woman?”

“Yes. I am,” she says. Now that it's out, there's no use in beating around the bush. “Can you help me or not?”

Eli sighs heavily. “What's the address?”

She gives him the information and hangs up, looking over at Kurt again. “Well, that's done.”

“I'm looking forward to meeting him,” he tries to laugh. “He sounds like a character.”

She senses his uncertainty now, his lingering hurt at what she said before. She crosses the room, kissing him soundly, leaving no room for doubt as to whether it was worth it – in either of their minds. “This is crazy, you know.”

“I know,” he says softly.

She takes his hand and pulls him back to the couch, letting him reclaim his spot. Now that the decision has been made, an escape route in sight, she feels strangely calm. And no matter what happens, it is always so easy to fall back in with him.

A little more than an hour later, there is a violent knock at the door.

“I guess that's Eli,” Kurt says.

“Even on a good day, he does everything dramatically,” Diane rolls her eyes. “Under the circumstances, I guess I'd better get that.”

Kurt nods and stands as she goes for the door. Eli pushes past her as soon as she opens it, his face wild with agitation, surveying the room as if he's on a raid. Diane follows him in, her arms crossed. She is prepared to endure a certain amount of his anger, but only so much.

Eli looks back and forth between Diane and Kurt, making a display of incredulity even after all he has been told, even after having the time to digest it.

“I cannot believe this. You're playing a joke. Not a very funny one, but this is a joke, isn't it?”

“No,” Diane says simply, in no mood to indulge him. “Did you get them to leave?”

“I really think I should be the one asking questions now. Just to be crystal clear, I'm to understand that you're sleeping with him?”

Diane senses Kurt's growing irritation and holds out a hand to stop him. “Yes.”

“Have you worked out some kind of political arrangement I don't know about?”

“No. This has nothing to do with our campaigns.”

Eli forces a laugh. “Like that's possible. How long--”

“That's not important,” she cuts him off.

“The hell it isn't! I need to know these things so I can contain the damage when _inevitably_ this gets out to the press.”

“It's not going to get out to the press.”

“Because you're putting a stop to it right now? Good.”

“Eli, we're all adults here. What Kurt and I choose to do in our own time--”

“Don't bother, Diane, I'll have Cary start to draft that speech for when you need to use it. You can spare me.” Eli runs his hands over his face slowly, making an exaggerated show of weariness. “You know, one thing I always loved about you Diane, I thought we would never have this problem. What is it about running for political office that makes it impossible for people to keep their clothes on?”

“Hey!” Kurt shouts, taking a few steps forward. 

Diane waves him off again, not failing to notice that he kept his silence until Eli crossed the line into insulting her.

“And with this right-wing lunatic of all people.”

“That's enough,” Diane says, stepping in between them. “We need to go.”

“Let me make sure the road is still clear. Since apparently this is my job now,” Eli sneers.

As he storms out, Diane walks back toward Kurt. “I'm sorry.”

He shrugs. “I'm not worried about what your campaign manager thinks.”

She leans closer, her hands resting on his chest. “I don't want to stop this, Kurt. But maybe we should lie low for a little while. They'll move on as soon as they smell fresh meat.”

“How long?”

“Until the next debate?”

“Oh, four days?” he laughs, teasing her, pulling her closer. “Do you think we can make it four days?”

“Good thing I got my fill of you this weekend,” she responds, her returned laughter muffled in a kiss.

“Oh, for God's sake!” Eli yells from the doorway, a look of disgust on his face. “Come on, we have just enough time to get to the station.”

Diane pulls herself away, exchanging a last conspiratorial smile with Kurt and a little affectionate pinch that Eli can't see.

“You leave first, Diane, and I'll make sure no one manages to follow. And you,” Eli turns to Kurt, sputtering with impotent rage, “just – stay here!”

Eli opens the garage door while Diane gets into her car. He stops her before she backs out, motioning for her to roll down her window. “Pull out to the left – they're barricaded at the other end of the street.”

Despite her annoyance at his response to the situation, she can't help but marvel at his ingenuity. “How did you do it?”

“Emergency road crew. Checking out a possible sinkhole.”

She shakes her head, astonished. “How many favors do people owe you?”

“I'm not going to have any left to cash in after a few weeks of dodging this scandal.”

“There's nothing more for you to say about it, Eli.”

“Oh, we'll talk when we get back to the office.”

He steps back, allowing her to pull out. She has no doubt that she has only heard the beginning of his thoughts on this subject. That's just fine, she thinks. She will let him have his little tirade, as she always does. And then he will adjust to the way things are, just as he always does.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw, definitely nsfw, it's porn with feelings hi

There is nothing about running for office that Diane enjoys more than debating. Walking down the hallway toward the auditorium, even before she can feel the energy of the audience, she feels alive, focused, ready to conquer. Eli and Cary amble along several steps behind, huddled over a notepad, making last-minute revisions to her closing statement. No stronger action words are going to make her feel more ready now, but is just as well that Eli leave her alone to psych herself up this time. In the run-up to the second debate, he has offered more snark than support.

She sees Kurt approaching from the other direction, almost missing a step as he takes her in. Her lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile at his momentary loss of concentration, her eyes taking on a devilish glint, knowing exactly why.

As he comes nearer, he murmurs, his voice low, “You look good.”

She raises one finger to her lips, silently pursing them in a a shushing expression, averting her gaze. She just barely brushes his arm as she passes, smirking, knowing she has left him wanting. Enough to throw him off his own game, she hopes, but not so much that Eli or Cary would notice as they pass.

Then again, let them notice. 

Eli assumes his usual place at her side as she waits in the wings, and for a moment it is as if nothing has happened to upset their longstanding routine. But the customary pep talk, his last words of advice, have changed under the circumstances.

“Remember, try to _beat_ your opponents; try not to _bang_ any of them.”

“Eli.” 

“I know. I thought I had it all out of my system.” He pauses, looking down at his notes. “If you could focus on your _political_ positions for ninety minutes--”

“ _Eli_ ,” she says more sharply, her voice a warning.

“That's it, I'm done.” 

“Don't worry, Eli. The only thing I have on my mind right now is destroying both of them.”

“Good.” Eli looks straight ahead, satisfied by her attitude, a smug expression playing across his face. But a moment later he turns to her, aghast. “This is a _turn-on_ for you, isn't it?”

“Always has been,” she smiles at him sideways, stalking away from him as she hears her cue to take the stage.

The audience applauds as the three candidates walk out. This time, Diane strides directly over to Kurt, extending her hand and holding his gaze, her eyes full of lust and flirtation that he alone will recognize. He smiles back for the benefit of the crowd and the cameras, his eyes narrowing just slightly, silently cursing her. 

She leans closer, laughing as if she is merely saying a sporting _Good luck_ , but actually whispering in his ear, “Room 901.”

She leaves him confused as she slips her other hand into his pocket and quickly withdraws it, walking away from him again with a last flip of her hair.

She exchanges only the most cursory handshake with Lyman before returning to her side. The second debate will follow a town hall format, the three candidates perched on high stools. Diane takes her seat, artfully arranging her legs, glancing over to see how Kurt likes the view. He shakes his head, provoked by her in more ways than one. If he thought watching her lean on a podium was hard to take...

As the moderator announces the rules of the debate, she notices him slip his hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around what she has left there. His eyes go a little wide as it dawns on him that it is her hotel key card. He licks his lips, pointedly avoiding her gaze now. 

The debate has not even begun, and she is already running away with it.

 

…...........................

 

When Diane hears the click of the lock and the door opening and closing, she is waiting for him, stretched out on the bed, wearing a long black chemise, the slit revealing the length of one leg. She is satisfied to see his jaw drop just slightly. 

“You do not fight fair,” he says when he finally finds his voice. 

“I keep trying to tell you,” she replies, her voice low and full of desire. “All's fair in this game.”

She smiles devilishly, sliding off the bed and slowly crossing the room to where he stands in the doorway, reveling in his undisguised appreciation of her body. “That's just the way you looked at me when I shot down your phony numbers on Medicaid spending.”

“You're killing me,” he breathes, either not hearing or caring what she said.

“I know. It's so easy.” She rests her hands on his chest, inclining her face toward him but stopping just short of contact. He tries to close the distance, his lips parting for hers, but she pulls away slightly each time. “I _wanted_ to kill you a few times.”

He moves his hands over her, his open palms slowly traveling from her shoulders to her hips. She shivers, but holds her ground just as firmly as she did during the debate. “Like when I stole your thunder on school funding?”

“And when you called me the most dangerously liberal candidate Illinois has ever seen.” She lifts her head to lightly press her lips to his forehead, exposing her neck to him, withdrawing again when he tries to kiss her there. “Do you find me dangerous?”

“Extremely.” He laughs, close enough that she can feel his breath warm on her skin. “So, the all-important question... who won?”

“The commentators are saying we're evenly matched.” She shifts to the other side of his face, her lips moving against his cheek.

“First intelligent thing I've heard them say.” He tries to continue joking, but she can hear something rough and impatient creep into his voice.

“If they only knew,” she pulls back, grinning wickedly. “Guess we'll have to go for round two to decide this one.”

“I think I did pretty well, considering--” His voice hitches as she unknots his tie, pulling it free of his neck with one swift tug. "--both of my opponents fight dirty. Each in their own way.”

“Positively filthy,” she agrees, kissing his throat as she unfastens the top buttons of his shirt. “And such a paragon of virtue you are.”

He laughs again, almost nervously now, his hands roaming lower, caressing her ass over the thin material. “Oh, I've had my share of impure thoughts.”

“Still,” she says, raising her head, and looking him directly in the eye, “I think you deserve some reward for how good you have been.”

She releases her hold on him and walks back toward the bed, letting him enjoy the view from the back now. Then she turns, cocks her head, and says, “Come here.”

He needs no further encouragement, moving to be at her side again.

He lets her push him back onto the bed, falling like dead weight, helpless under her hands. She parts his knees with one of hers and steps between his legs. She lowers herself slowly, her hands in his hair, pulling his face to hers. Finally she allows him to kiss her, by now a hungry, needy kiss. When she pulls back again, he looks at her with something like wonder, a look that could easily break her if she let it.

“I caught you staring at my mouth every time I answered a question,” she smirks back at him. “Is this what you were thinking about?”

“I was thinking about employment figures, the pension deficit, probably just staring off into space.” He jokes, until her hand moving across the front of his pants makes him take this suddenly more seriously. “ _Diane..._ ”

She unfastens his belt and pants quickly, and he shifts to allow her to pull them down. She lowers her head, pressing kisses against his thigh, moving steadily upward, nuzzling the fabric of his boxers aside.

“I was thinking about this,” she says, her voice deep and throaty, raising her head again to see his agony and his arousal. 

She slips her fingers under the waistband of his shorts, pulling them down roughly. The truth is, she is just as eager as he is.

She knows he is watching her in fascination, as interested in the sight of her taking him into his mouth as he is by the feeling of it. His hands move over her restlessly, tangled in her hair, caressing her shoulders, moving down her arms, her back, her breasts, first over the flimsy material, then slowly sliding the straps down, pulling on the bodice. Even now, he is more absorbed in her than his own pleasure, not content to simply sit back and enjoy this. 

She grabs his hands to still them, interlacing her fingers through his and bringing them to rest on his thighs. Frustrated, denied this way, she feels the tension in his bones, his breath becoming more labored. She smiles around him, sucking harder, her tongue running over the length of him. It satisfies the same primal drive to shut him down in a debate as it does to make him groan now, possessing this knowledge of his vulnerabilities and using it to her advantage, seeing him fall at her feet.

She revels in bringing him to the point where he can no longer stop himself from thrusting back at her, his fingers clenching and unclenching around hers, little hitched noises turning into full-throated groans, finally letting go completely in a series of erratic jerks, a heaving sigh as she pushes him over the edge. 

It is like winning; it is like absolutely conquering him.

She lets go of his hands then, allowing him to resume touching her as she touches him, his hands shaky and halting now. She kisses and strokes his legs and stomach, nipping and licking at his skin. He runs his hands through her hair as he whispers “Diane, Diane...” and only gradually does she realize that this is less the mindless murmuring of pleasure than it is a request, a need for her closeness at last.

She stands, finding herself a little unsteady with desire now, too, her body catching up to her brain with the thrill of mastering him. She finds her balance, her hands firmly clasping his shoulders as he pulls her against him, kissing her stomach and her breasts fervently, and it occurs to her that he loves this even more than the orgasm or the build-up to it, that she herself is the reward...

Overcome by this thought, she lowers her face to his and kisses him hard, her hands sliding through his hair and holding him there, letting go only long enough for him to slide the straps of her chemise free of her arms. He pulls the silky garment over her hips, taking advantage of her momentary unsteadiness as she steps out of it, flipping her, laughing, against the mattress.

Almost as soon as he does, he slides down her body, lingering at her breasts, lingering at the the jut of her hip. He takes his time maddeningly, exacting revenge for her torment and then some. When he continues to her legs, lips and tongue tracing a path down her thighs and still lower to her knees, it is all she can do to stifle a little scream of frustration.

Instead, she props herself up on her elbows, tossing her hair out of her face. “You were thinking about this, too, during the whole debate.”

He smiles up at her, then lowers his head again to murmur against her skin. “The way you were flashing your legs at me, how could I not?”

“I deny that accusation,” she says with feigned indignation.

“Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't if it wasn't so effective,” he laughs, happy to admit his own weakness now that he has her right where he wants her. 

Shaking her head, she flops back against the bed again, pulling her calf away from his lips and hooking it over his shoulder, then the other leg, pulling him back to her. He may not be willing to simply accept pleasure, greedy and wanting, but she will. She will demand it.

Incapable of denying her, he lies down before her. She shifts her hips beneath him, her knees dropping wide, the soles of her feet running roughly over his sides and ass, any part of him she can reach as his tongue begins to tease her. She sighs happily, running her hands through her hair, her eyes drifting closed.

In the back of her mind, as always, runs the thought: _This is crazy._ But as he explores her, attentive to her little cries, drawing them from her again and again, it is immediately chased by: _So what?_

She wishes she could but she cannot quite shut off her mind altogether, running over all the phrases she has learned to keep to herself.

She doesn't ask _What are we doing?_ anymore. It was always a rhetorical question, which he willfully misunderstood. But if she asked it now, he would answer, and she does not want to hear it.

They do not talk about their personal lives or their feelings and that gives everything an immediacy, a sense that this exists only in the present, separate and disconnected form everything else. That is what she needs now: this neatly in its own box, when the rest of her life is open to and judged by everyone. This has already turned into something different from what she understood to be their agreement. Keeping it from spilling over into the rest of her life is the last defense she has.

But when he touches her this way – zealously, reverently – there is no denying what this is. All she can do is keep it here, safely in the present, in hotel rooms they will never return to, these stolen hours, weekends away, remote and singular. Perhaps she cannot keep this up forever, but for now – 

“Don't stop,” she whispers, inwardly cringing at the banality of the words, outwardly clutching helplessly at bedsheets, certain regardless that she will lose her mind if he ever does.

And then she does, she does lose her mind anyway, as he begins his relentless assault on just, _just_ that spot. She arches her back, wondering briefly if it was always going to be a losing battle, then all thought drowned out by some unknown sound partway between laughter and keening, all sense forgotten but the crashing waves of pleasure he is drawing from her. 

She leaves him no room to wander after, clutching at his shoulders before she can even master her breathing and he complies willingly, his hips nestled between hers, their arms tangled around each other, kissing until everything slows to normal, and lazily, long after.

He shifts his weight off of her after a while, lying beside her with his head propped up on one hand, idly fondling her with the other. She looks up at him, sleepy and satisfied. 

“That will make up for calling my pension reform proposal garbage,” she laughs.

“You said mine was utter nonsense,” he smiles back, leaning down to kiss her hairline, the corner of her eye.

She pulls away slightly. “It _is_ nonsense – if you privatize public pensions you put at risk--”

“Shhh,” he whispers, stopping her with a kiss on her lips again.

She runs her tongue over her lips when he pulls away again. “Anyway, it's a terrible plan.”

“Does Eli know I'm here?” he asks softly.

“God,” she groans. “The last thing I want to talk about right now is my campaign manager.”

He laughs. “I don't have much else... want to critique Lyman's debate performance?”

“Stop, stop,” she makes an exaggerated display of disgust, shoving him playfully. A moment later she sighs, stretching contentedly. “Do you think we've figured out who won yet?”

“I think it's still a draw.”

“Can't have that in politics,” she smirks, reaching out for him and pulling him back down. “Suppose we'll have to go another round.”


	26. Chapter 26

> _“Now is it enough for me to want to secede from the union? I don't know. And I hope I never have to find out. But I would not stand in the way of others who wanted to do so. That much I do know.”_

Kalinda stops the video there, mercifully. Her eyes are all kindness, waiting without judgement for Diane's reaction – or rather her very careful non-reaction. Kalinda knows, of course. She has known much longer than Eli. She may not be privvy to all of the salacious details but, perhaps, she understands much more of what lies behind it. 

Eli takes a different tack. “We can use this to paint McVeigh as the extremist he is, Diane. This whole campaign he's been trying to sell himself as a reasonable alternative, a regular guy. But _this_ is the real Kurt McVeigh.”

“No, Eli,” Diane says, shaking her head.

“Diane,” Kalinda says more softly, “I would only add that this clip is not difficult to find. If we don't use it, someone else very likely will.”

“And there's a lot more where that came from,” Eli continues, eagerly.

Diane leans forward over the table. “I want to talk about my campaign. What _I'm_ going to do. Not spend all of my time trying to scare people about the other guys. Who does _that_ sound like?”

“Diane--” he begins to argue.

“I'm not using it, Eli. Let's move on.”

Eli clears his throat. “Kalinda – thank you. I'd like to talk to Diane alone for a few minutes.”

Kalinda flashes her a last sympathetic glance, then gathers up her laptop and leaves. Diane waits until the door has closed before speaking again, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Eli, for God's sake, he's not going to create the 51st state of South Illinois. This is garbage, and you know it.”

“He went to a public event and said what he believed knowing he was being recorded. That's fair game, Diane,” Eli insists.

“And it has nothing to do with any policy he would pursue if he was actually elected to office.”

“That is not what this is really about. You _know_ what this is really about,” he says pointedly.

“Eli, we've worked together on four campaigns now. And I have never run an ad like that.”

“You've never run against such a crazy lunatic before!” Eli bursts out in a fit of exasperation, then lowers his voice meaningfully. “And you've also never run against someone you were sleeping with.”

“Eli.”

“That I know of.”

“ _Eli!_ ”

“All right,” he raises his hands, palms out, in an apologetic gesture. “Enough childish digs, I mean it. I want to talk to you about this seriously, Diane.”

She leans back in her chair, exhausted of going round and round with him. “We've had this conversation, Eli. I let you speak your mind once already. I don't need to hear it again.”

“We haven't had _this_ conversation. I'm not going to rant and rave, I'm not going to lecture you.”

Diane sighs. She endured his initial anger and his ongoing jokes. There isn't much more he has to say about Kurt McVeigh that she is willing to hear. But, she decides, she will indulge him one last time.

He stands and moves to the chair nearest her, leaning forward as if they are about to have a heart-to-heart talk. Or an intervention, come to that.

“Diane, you've been obviously distracted for weeks. You leave meetings early, you take hours to respond to my messages. Now, I know why.”

She starts to protest, but he raises one finger to silence her. 

“We're in the homestretch, Diane. Less than a month to election day. I'm going to need you to keep your head in the game for a few more weeks.”

Diane raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms, not liking a word of what she's hearing. But she allows him to continue.

“Don't self-destruct on me now, Diane. You've spent your whole life building toward this. But now, I'm wondering whether your heart is really still in it.”

When she speaks at last, she speaks as clearly and deliberately as she can. If he still does not hear her now... there is not much more she can say.

“Eli, I need you to step outside of what you've learned about my personal life and look at this objectively. Nothing has changed here. All I want is to run a clean campaign that I can look back on and feel proud of, win or lose.”

Eli shakes his head slowly, a mournful look coming over his face. “The Diane I know wouldn't even consider losing as a possibility.”

Diane pushes herself back from the table angrily. “Oh, give it a rest, Eli. Go run some General Assembly campaign if you want someone you can manipulate like that. I know you too well.”

“Fine,” he says, standing, matching her anger. “Do what you want, Diane. But I only want you to consider this possibility. Canning and Lee showed they would stop at nothing when they engineered those threatening letters against you. Do you really think they're above planting a fake third-party candidate to seduce you and then discredit you, throwing the race to Lyman?”

“No, I don't think they're above it,” she says, her voice icy. “But Kurt McVeigh is above it. And frankly, Eli, if that's all you think of me, perhaps we should reevaluate our relationship.”

Eli is visibly stunned, hurt, so much so that she almost regrets saying it. But of course he has to push it just one inch further.

“Maybe we both need to think, Diane. Because right now, I don't think you even know what you want.”

With that closing remark he leaves, letting the door close just a little too hard behind him.

Diane turns around in her chair, gazing out the window at nothing in particular. She can't blame Eli for his suspicion. She had entertained the thought too, fleetingly, in the beginning. And he can't know Kurt as she knows him. He sees him only as an extremist and an enemy, to be destroyed at all costs. That's what she pays him for, after all, and he is very good at it. He can't possibly know how genuine Kurt is, how deeply held his beliefs are, how kind and sincere he can be. 

But he should know her. He should know after all this time that nothing matters more to her than serving the people who have elected her. He should know not to bring something like that video to her, and he should know not to question her motives when she refused to use it. Above all, he should know she would never do anything to undermine her ability to do her job. And now he questions whether she knows what she wants?

There is a grain of truth to what he has said, she will allow. She has made mistakes, stupid mistakes – she said as much herself the other day. She has cut corners, here and there, to be with Kurt, and she was very nearly caught red-handed. But she doesn't agree that her head is not in the game, her heart no longer in it. She has just carved out some small part of both for him. 

Her phone vibrates, disturbing her thoughts. She turns around, reaching out for it.

> _I'm hitting the road tomorrow.  
>  But I'm in town tonight._

She smiles down at the message, but sets the phone down for a moment, considering her response. If there is even a grain of truth to it, perhaps she should think about it. She could blow him off now; she could put this on hold until the campaign is over. 

But no one owns her absolutely. Not Eli. Not even The People writ large.

She picks up the phone again.

> _My place, 9:00?_

She does know what she wants, anyhow.

  


…............................

 

“How long are you going to be away?” Diane groans in exaggerated agony as she rolls off of him, later that night.

“Four days,” he says softly, turning onto his side to face her. “Whistle stop tour.”

“I have some events later this week, myself,” she sighs. “But I like having you at my beck and call.”

“ _I_ texted _you_ ,” he reminds her, laughing.

“Whatever,” she laughs, drawing him in for a kiss.

_God, she never gets enough of simply kissing him._

When she pulls back finally, she looks at him closely, some of Eli's words still running around in the back of her mind.

“What?” he prompts her gently.

“Let's make it official,” she says, the corners of her mouth quirking upward.

“What?” The second time, he sounds slightly wary.

She raises herself up, propping her head on one hand. Now that it has occurred to her, it seems like a brilliant plan. “Let's make a pact: no negative ads for the rest of the campaign.”

He shrugs. “I've already told you, I have no intention of going negative.”

“Then I'll join you, and we'll make it official.”

“What happened to 'all's fair'?” he smirks, throwing her own words back at her.

“I guess you're getting to me,” she smiles back, idly running a hand through his hair. 

Perhaps it's true, after all: in another race, against another man, perhaps she would have used what Kalinda brought to her. Perhaps she is sacrificing a point or two for her heart. But she has run the calculations, and it feels like an acceptable tradeoff.

“I've never liked that side of politics,” she goes on, more seriously. “Sometimes it's a necessary evil. But at this stage, I think we have more to gain by staying positive.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes.” She leans closer, more excited by this alternative the more she thinks it through. “We announce an agreement, and invite Howard Lyman to join. Of course, he won't – his whole campaign strategy rests on baseless attacks. So he goes on business as usual, and he ends up looking like the bad guy.”

It is a neat little justification. But it may also have the benefit of being true.

“If that's what you want to do, Diane, I'm on board.”

“I think it's smart,” Diane says, projecting a certainty that she nearly believes. “After the last debate, he's lagging behind both of us in the polls. It isn't working, their dirty politics. Let's prove that it's possible to win a statewide election in Illinois just by standing behind what we believe in.”

“Well, that's a rousing speech, Diane. Better be, because I doubt your staff is going to write it.”

“This is what I want,” she says, reiterating it for herself as much as for him. “I want to beat you, but not like that.”

“You aren't going to beat me at all,” he flashes her a sideways smile, his arm snaking around her waist again. “But I still appreciate the sentiment.”

“It's too close to call, now,” she grins back, turning into his embrace. “We're running neck and neck.”

“I'll say,” he murmurs, planting a kiss just there.


	27. Chapter 27

Neither Diane nor Eli has made any mention of their argument in the days that followed. They held no outright grudges, but they made no attempts to smooth things over, either. Both seem to have silently agreed to continue on as if nothing happened: Eli has stopped making jokes; Diane has made an effort to be more available to him. And it has worked – but the strain between them is obvious and ongoing.

The greatest test of this shaky understanding came when she announced her intent to declare a formal no-attack policy. She made her most pragmatic case for it in a full-staff meeting – not that he would never explode in front of the others, but she hoped he might at least be a little less likely to. She knows he was livid, and might have simply stormed out, but Cary – who they both had to recognize as being both impartial and oblivious – made a case for it as a smart political move. Eli simply washed his hands of it and let Cary run with the execution. Diane's statement went over well, and the effect on the polls speaks for itself. In the days since, Eli has not admitted it was a good idea, but he hasn't said another word against it, either.

So they have come to a sort of unspoken truce. She has resolved to never throw it in his face that she is seeing anything of Kurt, and he can live in blissful ignorance if he so chooses. Perhaps all it really needs is time – and demonstrating to him that she has not lost her edge or her motivation. (Privately, she thinks this affair has energized her, given her something that is neither disillusioning nor demeaning in this long campaign – but she would never mention this to Eli.) But she finds she misses his hysterical messages at all hours, his drilling her on policy even over drinks. What she really misses is her friend.

Her assistant knocks at her door, entering when Diane beckons.

“What is it, Natasha?”

“Mr Gold would like to see you – if you're free.”

Diane is almost surprised by the summons, but she knows the 'if you're free' came from Eli himself. The original message was likely closer to 'if she can be bothered.'

Diane nods and gets up to cross the hall to his office. Coming when he calls is as close to saying 'I'm sorry' as she is ever going to get.

She can see from the hallway that there are two men seated across from his desk. She pauses, but she doesn't recognize them from behind. She catches Eli's eye, a brief questioning look coming across her face. He merely raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth just barely twitching upward before he returns his gaze to his visitors. Whatever this is, it is clear to her that he is enjoying it.

Diane squares her shoulders and strides in. Indeed, whatever this is, she could be in the mood for a good fight herself.

“Ah, Diane,” Eli says, standing, acting as if he has just now seen her. “I thought you might like to meet my two guests.”

The larger man, balding and surly looking, stands too, offering his hand to Diane to shake. “It's an honor to meet you, Ms Lockhart. I'm David Lee.”

Diane's eyebrows go up as she exchanges another sideways glance with Eli. she looks past him to the younger, slighter man. “And you must be--” 

“Louis Canning. You'll have to forgive me for not standing. I have a condition known as tardive dyskinesia which causes uncontrollable movements--”

David Lee rolls his eyes, interrupting his partner. “Ms Lockhart doesn't care about that.”

“Of course I care, but please don't get up on my account,” Diane says evenly, reaching over to shake his hand. She can see very well it is a power play, forcing her to overextend herself. It is childish and pointless and not at all surprising, given what she knows about them.

“Mr Canning and Mr Lee have come to make us an interesting proposition,” Eli says with a forced pleasantness. “Of course, I told them I'd have to run it by you.”

“Gone are the days when campaign managers can just pull the puppet strings,” Canning jokes.

“Not entirely gone,” Diane says bluntly, a polite smile covering what is essentially an accusation.

“Yeah, anyway...” he goes on, shifting in his chair. “We'll get right to the point. We know you're very busy.”

David Lee picks up the pitch. “We think it's time to make this a campaign about serious politics again. Clear positions and clear choices. Don't you agree?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Diane says, nodding with exaggerated enthusiasm, but her voice dripping with sarcasm.

She has found herself confronted at last with the supposed masterminds behind her threatening letters and the nasty lies about Kurt. She is just waiting for the moment to tear them to pieces.

“That's what this race was about – ideas, moving Illinois forward,” Canning says brightly, leaning forward as if he is letting Diane in on a softer side. “And frankly, that's what interested us in getting involved. But that was before Kurt McVeigh came along.”

“He appeals to the angry and the ignorant in the electorate, plain and simple,” David Lee goes on. “And we don't think that's the kind of race you want to be a part of.”

“You said yourself the other day that you wanted to focus on the issues, on positivity.”

“I do want that,” Diane says, a hint of warning to her smile now. “But I couldn't help but notice, gentlemen, that Howard Lyman has taken every opportunity to slime Kurt McVeigh.”

David shrugs. “Mr Lyman is simply raising his very real concerns about his opponent's personal failings, questioning whether his activities are appropriate for someone in the position of Governor.”

“It comes from his deeply held family values and sense of civic duty,” Canning adds, his face swelling with affected admiration.

Right,” Diane says, her voice sharp but her expression still soft. Eli, standing a few feet away, crosses his arms and merely observes. He knows very well what is going through her mind. “So – what exactly do you propose to do about it?”

“We know you've signed on to a no-negative ad agreement – shrewd move by the way.” David smiles conspiratorially. “We would only ask that if we expose McVeigh as a dangerously divisive figure, you join with us in calling for him to withdraw from the race. For the good of everyone.”

“And why would I do that?” she asks quietly.

“You were way up in the polls, Diane – may I call you Diane? – before he entered the race.” Canning says, not pausing for her to answer. “You stand a much better chance in a race against Lyman than against McVeigh or both of us.”

“And I suppose you've done the analysis and found that your odds improve under that scenario, too.”

David Lee takes a couple steps forward, getting into her personal space. “This is how the game is played, Diane. You've been around long enough to know that. You can project this attitude of innocent idealism to the voters, but don't bother with us.”

Diane's eyebrows shoot up again, dropping the artificially pleasant demeanor now, her face clouding with controlled rage. “You know what I think? I think you're desperate. I think you're running scared. You're ten points back now, and it's just this kind of dirty tactics that put you there. That, and the fact that you're running a bumbling idiot for office. No backroom deal is going to prop him up.”

David puts his hands up in a gesture of contrition, turning away from her to face Eli, as expecting him to be the practical one. “Just think about it, okay?”

“Oh, we'll be sure to think about it,” Eli replies, his smile now more of a sneer.

“Look, we'd rather work with you guys than against you, but...” Canning trails off, making an effort to stand.

“But what?” Eli prompts.

“What?” Canning looks around, pretending to be mystified.

“We work with you, or else. That's what you meant,” Eli growls. “Why don't you lay out all you came here to say.”

“I think you may have noticed big stories have a tendency to drop before each debate,” Canning shrugs as if it were merely an observation.

“So you have a couple weeks to think about what you want to do, before you or anyone else finds out,” David Lee says, driving the threat home. 

“Go to hell,” Diane says icily.

“Candidates, huh?” Louis Canning turns to Eli, as if making an inside joke, campaign manager to campaign manager.

“Go to hell,” Eli echoes her, staring them down.

The two men leave without another word, Louis Canning taking his time to reach the door just to aggravate them.

“I could have shown them out myself,” Eli smirks, sitting down at his desk again. “But I knew you would enjoy that.”

She sits down across from him. “Do you think they really have something?”

Eli shakes his head, resigned but not intimidated. “If they don't, they'll make something up. You know how they operate. But I wouldn't make a deal with the devil to avoid it.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling at him.

“For what, for not stooping to their level? That's a pretty low bar.”

“No. Thank you – for always looking out for me.”

Eli nods, smiling back at her. “I have your back, Diane. I always will.”

They share a brief affirming glance before he looks away, checking his messages on his phone. 

That feels more like normal, then, she thinks, as she gets up to leave.

“Oh, by the way, we need to prep for the rally in Elmhurst,” he adds, without looking up. “Can I call you later – how's 10 o'clock?”

Diane laughs to herself, strangely relieved to be back on a late-night drill basis with him. “10 o'clock it is.”


	28. Chapter 28

When Diane looks at herself in the mirror, she can see how weary she has become. Long days of travel, rallies, interviews; long nights of planning, notes from Eli, very little sleep. Campaigning is taking its toll, she can see it plainly on her face. And it isn't only the time spent that's so draining, it's _how_ it's spent: increasingly, looking over her shoulder, explaining herself, getting pushed off message. And, she knows, it isn't going to get any better, if she wins. _When_ she wins, she mentally corrects herself.

But when Diane looks at herself in the mirror, she can see how happy she has become. Disheveled, flushed and well-loved, sacrificing a few more hours of precious sleep for something perhaps even more precious. Now and then, after a hundred daily irritations, there is this to look forward to, a few stolen hours that restore her. Even if it is with the man she is trying to defeat by day.

It is unconventional, but for now, at least, it works.

She leaves the bathroom, walking back out into the hotel bedroom, conscious of his eyes on her naked body without looking up to verify. She smiles to herself, turning away to deny him the satisfaction – or perhaps to allow him a different sort of satisfaction; whatever. She hunts around for something to slip into among the mess they've made, selecting his shirt with a smirk, which she does share with him, taking her time in slipping it on, performing a kind of reverse strip-tease. 

She looks at him as if wondering what he thinks; his approval is obvious. The shirt hangs from her slender frame, dipping off one shoulder, barely covering her ass.

“Looks better on you,” he says.

“You think so?”

“I do.” He cocks his head, inviting her back to bed.

She crosses the room slowly, with an exaggerated swing of her hips. With anyone else she would feel ridiculous; with anyone else, she wouldn't care to be playful at all. Oh, but he is so easy, and so appreciative, and for a man of few words who keeps his thoughts to himself, he certainly doesn't hold much back with her, here, these few stolen hours...

_It works_ , it works, she tells herself again, crawling back into bed and kissing him, simple as that, nothing more to say. It works, just as it is.

She pulls back again, smiling, satisfied to see his eyes still half-closed, wanting more. She turns to grab her cell phone from the bedside table, feeling that even if it is only for a few moments in a long, harried day, this is a kind of balance. She can make time for him, but never be away from her obligations.

He groans, but gives in. “Grab mine, too?”

She hands him his phone and settles back against the headboard again, her shoulder pressed against his, sitting side by side. He curls his arm around her waist, his fingertips idly slipping under the hem of the shirt as they both skim through their emails.

It works... _almost too perfectly._

He laughs to himself as he looks at his messages. “Jennifer Barkley keeps sending me all of these campaign tips.”

“Anything you can share?” Diane asks, grinning but not looking up from her own nightly litany.

“She wants me to make sure I get on the news holding a baby.” He makes a face. “I don't hold babies.”

“You should start holding babies, Kurt.”

“Seriously?” He sets down his phone for a second, looking over at her.

“I don't like them any more than you do, but they can win or lose an election.” She holds his gaze seriously as long as she can stand it before she bursts out laughing.

He shakes his head, looking down at his phone again.

“She also thinks I'd look more trustworthy if I were clean-shaven.” He turns to her again. “What do you think?”

“Don't you dare,” she says, deathly serious now.

“I don't know. I might think about that one.”

She reaches over and runs her hand over his bristled chin, pulling him closer for a kiss. “Don't even think about it,” she whispers before she withdraws again.

“Good to know,” he returns to his own phone, smiling a little smugly.

“Eli likes to give me notes when he thinks I'm being too aggressive,” she sighs. “You know, there are only so many foolish questions I can take in one day.”

“Don't listen to him. It's sexy when you look at someone like you're shocked by how stupid they are.”

“Somehow I don't think that's the effect Eli is going for.”

“You do that glowering-over-the-rim-of-your-glasses thing,” he goes on.

“Do I?”

“Yeah. That's why I never mind it when you think I've said something stupid.”

“Oh, stop,” she says, swatting at his shoulder.

“She says I called you 'Diane' in an interview.”

She looks over at him, half-horrified, half-amused. “Did you?”

“I don't know, I might have. She's acting like it's the worst thing I could have said.”

“You can't call me Diane,” she says, laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Do you think that's what's going to tip them off?”

“No, I just... you just don't _do_ that.” After all this time, he is still such a novice at this, he still says exactly what comes to mind and thinks nothing of it. It's as adorable as it is maddening.

“I think it sounds more intimate when I call you _Ms Lockhart_ ,” he says, drawing out each syllable, his voice lilting suggestively.

“Yeah, don't do that either,” she laughs.

He sets down his phone, apparently having had enough of the trivialities of running for political office for one night. He settles back against the pillows more deeply, watching the news program she's sure he pays no attention to when she's not around, waiting for her to finish but not pushing her. She smiles to herself. This works so well, and sometimes she can see no reason why it can't-- 

“What is this?” His voice, suddenly sharp, cuts into her thoughts.

“What?” 

She looks up at the television. An ad about his campaign she hasn't seen before is airing. She grabs the remote and turns it up. Gradually, she recognizes it for the vicious attack ad it is, and she feels sick to her stomach as she realizes it features the clip Kalinda brought to her – along with several other equally incendiary comments he made at rallies and protests, long before he ever thought of running for office, none of them relevant to what he would actually promote if he won.

Strung together and edited just this way, his words will sound disturbing to many voters. She cringes, horrified for him. But he did say them.

“This is your PAC,” he says, as the ad finishes. 

She sits up suddenly, now defensive. “My campaign doesn't coordinate--”

“Did you ask me to agree to a no-negative agreement just so you could blindside me with attacks from your PAC?” He is making an effort to sound lighthearted, but she can see he is hurt.

“Absolutely not, Kurt. I specifically told them I wouldn't use--”

“So you did know about this.” 

“Kurt, everything in that ad is publicly available.”

“But your campaign found it, you knew about it.”

“And I told them I wouldn't use it,” she repeats, becoming irritated that that isn't enough of an answer for him.

“You could have at least warned me.”

Her eyes go wide, stunned that the thought had even crossed his mind. “Why would I do that? We're not on the same side.”

“Obviously.”

She is so infuriated with him she cannot even think of a response to that. She did all she reasonably could have done to protect him – honestly, more than she _should_ have done, by refusing to use it. He said what he said. It isn't slander.

She gets up, shoving the covers aside and wrenching off his shirt. She throws it on the ground, gathering up her own dress and pulling it on hastily, hunting around for her shoes, shoving her undergarments into her purse. 

“Are you going?” he asks, in what is potentially the stupidest question she has heard all day.

“Yep,” she says, mocking him, shooting him one of those withering looks, if he likes it so much. 

“Look – don't go,” he says, clambering out of bed after her, contrition in his voice.

But he can't say he's sorry. She waits to hear it just a moment longer, until she is so angry she cannot even look at him.

“Goodnight, Kurt,” she says, stalking toward the door.

She lets the door close hard behind her, her rage only building as she contemplates his presumption and his inability to see her side. But she doesn't get more than a couple steps away before she sees a couple walking in her direction. She freezes. They are lost in their own conversation now, but they won't be for long if they see her. 

She could take the chance that they will not notice or will not recognize her. Very possibly they would think nothing of it even if they did. But she can't take that chance again – not after what happened last time. 

Besides, she studied herself in the mirror long enough to know how she looks. Tousled hair, smudged eyeliner, clothes in a disarray, and now seething – that would be hard to miss and hard to mistake. 

She turns around, but finds the other end of the hallway is a dead end. There is no way to get out except straight ahead. 

Or back.

As much as it galls her, she can see she has no choice. She darts quickly back to his room, pounding on his door.

He opens it quickly, as if he had been standing just behind it, whisking her inside. “Thank God,” he whispers, kissing her passionately.

“Kurt – there was someone coming--” she tries to explain, taken by surprise.

“I'm sorry,” he breathes into her mouth, relieved that she came back, whatever the reason. 

She pulls him against her, sinking back against the door, relieved too by his words and, increasingly, by his touch. Oh, later, she'll make him explain in detail how sorry he is, but suddenly she doesn't mind if he shows her first...


	29. Chapter 29

The last weeks of the campaign mean more time spent on the road than not. The natural politician in Diane thrives on being out there in real towns, talking to real people – getting away from the cutthroat politics and intrusive reporters, for at least a few hours at a time. This is what keeps her grounded, reminds her of why she is doing this and how rewarding it can be. Getting out on the road is as much an escape as it is a return to what is real.

Somehow, it's different this time. Everything she hates about the political process seems to follow her now, not so easily left behind in Chicago. She is quicker to anger and to tire, she can feel it. But there's more to it than that, as much as she hates to admit it to herself. Most days, she doesn't even notice it until the work is done, coming back to a hotel room he will not be joining her in. She used to look forward to the final hour or two of solitude after giving the same speech six times in a day, shaking a thousand hands. This time, she misses him.

She misses him, and at the end of a long day now she just wants to crawl into his bed, to feel the reassuring warmth and solidity of his body. That is not all she wants – it has been a long time since it was, if it ever was, really – but it is easy, immediate, and good. It's his easygoing presence she misses, too, his sheepish laugh, the way he looks at her when he doesn't think she notices. She always notices.

Just when she found her thoughts wandering down that path one night, as if he had been thinking the same thing at the same time, he reached out to her with a tentative text message: _You still up?_ She had laughed to herself, and she remembered noticing the time: 11 o'clock exactly. She had only just checked into her room, still wired from the energy of the crowd at the last rally of the day – of course she was still up. Perhaps someday she will think of going to bed before midnight again, but that feels a long way off just now.

After that it became nightly calls, dependable as she would expect him to be, always at eleven. It doesn't stop her from missing him; in fact, it tends to make it worse. But it does at least delay it for a while.

When her phone rings tonight, she no longer needs to see his name on the screen to know it's him.

“Hey you,” she answers playfully.

“Hey. Are you watching Channel Two? They're talking about us.”

“ _You're_ watching the news?” she teases him, walking across the room to grab the remote.

“Just wanted to see you.”

It almost stops her in her tracks, that way he has of saying something unexpectedly tender in an offhand, lighthearted way. He spoke of feelings once and not again since – but now and then he will say something like that, something as true and yet easily taken back, walking such a fine line she doesn't know what to say in response. Still, he is braver than she is.

In place of a witty rejoinder, she clicks on the television. She crosses her arms, listening to a panel discussing the election for a few moments.

> _“There has been a fair amount of mudslinging and personal attacks in this race, but between the official Lockhart and McVeigh camps it has been a remarkably positive campaign.”_
> 
> _“Almost makes you wonder if their campaign managers are in bed together.”_

Stunned for a moment by how close they are to the truth and yet managing to miss it by a mile, Diane lets out a low rumble of a laugh that soon turns into a full-throated, head-thrown-back cackle. 

“I love hearing you laugh,” he says quietly when she has finally recovered herself, and she can almost hear the smile in his voice. 

“Then we should watch the news together more often,” she says, inwardly cringing as she hears herself dodge yet another warm remark. 

“How was your day?” he asks, sounding as tired as she feels. 

“Long. Four towns today.”

“I've got you beat. I hit five.”

“Impressive!”

“Why don't we sync up schedules more often?”

She laughs. “We really could have planned this better.”

They drift into an easy silence, Diane halfheartedly watching the news, settling back on the bed. She doesn't much care what the pundits have to say, but she does enjoy seeing the occasional clip of his speeches earlier that day.

> _“What do you think, does one candidate have more momentum at this point?”_
> 
> _“They're in a statistical dead heat, and have been since the second debate, with Howard Lyman trailing a ways behind. It's literally a tossup.”_

“Hard to believe the election is just a few weeks away,” Kurt muses.

“Yeah. I guess one of us is really going to win this.” 

It is just this kind of sleepy, banal exchange that these late-night calls always fall into, that she depends upon for their simplicity and ease.

“And then what?” he asks, an unexpected sharp edge to his voice.

She sits up a little straighter. A question like that is breaking the rules of the 11 o'clock phone call as she understands them. 

“What do you mean?”

“We've gotten used to sneaking around during the campaign, but when it's over...”

He trails off. He does not know, but again he is one step ahead of her.

Somehow, Diane had never given much thought to what would happen afterward. That they are in the last weeks of the campaign is obvious, but she never allowed herself to think beyond it. Part of it is years of Eli's coaching: win first; _then_ figure out how the hell to actually do the job. But part of it, too, is that she had never considered that there _could_ be an afterward, for them – that there was anything here that would outlive the campaign.

Or perhaps more truthfully, part of it is that she has become very comfortable with their arrangement just as it is, and she doesn't want to think of it coming to an end. 

But one way or another, it will.

“I don't know,” she says softly, trying her best to meet him halfway, whether or not he likes where that takes them. “We can't exactly go public and start either of our administrations off with a scandal.”

“So we, what, keep sneaking around for the rest of our lives?”

She can't resist teasing him, echoing his words. “The rest of our lives?”

Her joke must have fallen flat; he goes quiet in what is now a decidedly uneasy silence. It is driving her crazy now more than ever not to see his face, not to know for certain whether he is thinking she is maddeningly adorable or just plain maddening. And at the same time she is aware that she found it adorable and not just plain terrifying that he should reference a future of any kind together, even in such an abrupt way. 

When he finally responds she hears again how tired he sounds – and she has no way of knowing if it's the effect of his long day, or of this conversation.

"What if things were different?"

"You never struck me as the sort of man who lives in fantasies," she says, trying hard to keep the tone light.

He seems to be equally eager to bring it to some more definite point. "I'm not talking about a fantasy. I mean what if things... changed?" 

"What, like you dropping out of the race?"

He laughs – over the phone it sounds just like a sharp exhalation of breath, but she knows the sound well. "Or you."

She laughs, too, if only to indicate that what she's about to say isn't meant as coldly as it might be heard. “Kurt, if things were different we'd be right back in the same place, standing on opposite sides.”

“Yeah,” he says, and she knows that sound, too: it is not an agreement so much as it is the recognition that she believes exactly what he feared she believed.

It isn't true. If things were different, she would tell him what is now perfectly clear to her. She might be that brave.

But things are the way they are: they _are_ standing on opposite sides and in a few weeks' time one of them is going to be Governor and the other is not. She has stopped herself from quite facing that fact this whole time, but she cannot any longer. Things are the way they are, so she can only say, quietly, "Nothing needs to change, Kurt."

She understands his silence this time perfectly well: she has hurt him. And the hell of it is, that is the most hopeful thought she can conjure right now. _Nothing needs to change._

“Listen, I'd better go – early start tomorrow.”

“Me, too.” She smiles sadly, closing her eyes. “Call me tomorrow?”

She has never asked him to before, but suddenly she is seized with the fear that he won't. 

“Of course. Goodnight, Diane.”

She sets down her phone, leaning back against the pillows, replaying the conversation in her head. She traces it back, trying to identify the point in their innocuous bantering where it had taken this turn and how she had let it completely blindside her. But they were always going to wind up here, that is clear now. Sooner or later she would be forced to confront whether this was all just a part of the game, or something real outside of it.

And whether, depending on the outcome, they really have any choice in the matter at all.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really explicit but some adult activities follow. :]

“It's good to have you back, Ms Lockhart!” a young man calls out as soon as Diane walks back into Campaign Headquarters. Several other volunteers look up, echoing his words. 

“It's good to _be_ back,” she grins, waving back at them before continuing on her path to her office.

As much as she loves being out on the road, it is always good to return home. Her own office, her own bed, her own city – everything is rougher and more cynical here, but it is home. She is back to prepare for the third and final debate and the last push before the election. And (she can't deny it is one reason she is in such a good mood this morning) Kurt will soon be, too.

They won't have many more days like this – the thought has lingered in the back of her mind since that painful phone call. But there's nothing to stop them now.

But she doesn't even make it to her office before Cary stops her.

“Hey, Diane...” He trails off, an obvious uneasiness underneath the usual boyish grin.

“Hey Cary,” she jokes back, mocking him. Nothing he has to say is going to bring her down today.

“Could you join us in the conference room real quick?”

She sighs. “I'm just getting back, Cary. Can you let me sit down for ten minutes?”

“Unfortunately... No.”

Eli is the hysterical one who thinks every blip demands her immediate and full attention. She credits Cary with a little more discretion, and she can see from his face he is serious.

“What is this?” She narrows her eyes slightly.

“Just come with me.”

She doesn't feel any better when he flashes her another little smile, clearly intended to be reassuring. What should she need reassurance about?

“I get it. You don't want to be the messenger,” Diane observes as she changes course to follow him. 

“Yeah, I really don't,” he laughs, but it is a forced and uncomfortable laugh.

When they enter the conference room, she sees Eli and Kalinda already there, hunched over a laptop. Their faces are grim, talking in hushed tones. Eli stops abruptly when he notices Diane, closing the laptop cover halfway and turning to face her.

Yes, Eli is the hysterical one, but she knows him well enough spot the difference between the Eli Gold freakout over a triviality and the Eli Gold freakout over a real fiasco. She recognizes this as the latter.

“What?” she asks tersely, sitting down across from them.

“You remember when Canning and Lee visited a couple weeks ago,” Eli says, his anger evident and barely controlled.

“And politely tried to put a gun to our heads?”

“They followed through on their threats this morning. My contact at the _Tribune_ tipped me off that this is about to go live.”

He turns the laptop around to face her, revealing a news site with the headline:

> **ELDER LOCKHART WAS MCCARTHY INFORMANT**

Diane's stomach drops and she sits back in her chair, feeling as if she has just been punched. That's all she needs to see; she can imagine the rest. Kalinda found the story herself years ago when she first began working for her. She has had years now to confront and live with the fact that her father, her revered father, the man who had inspired her to a life of public service in the first place, had sold out his own best friend to the House Un-American Activities Committee. 

But to see it there in black and white, knowing it would be the major news story leading up to the debate, dragging her family's name through the mud, questioning her own integrity... It was as much a blow as hearing it for the first time.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “All right. We all knew this day might come sooner or later. What next?”

“We don't want to give it too much credibility. It's not about _you_ , Diane,” Eli says with rare warmth, sounding if he is speaking as a friend as much as her campaign manager. “We don't even make a statement. We don't do interviews. We don't acknowledge it. It's a non-issue. But we will have talking points when inevitably it comes up in the debate.”

“I don't think I need any talking points, Eli. I think a simple 'Get a life' will do.”

“We'll find a more diplomatic way of saying exactly that,” Cary says as lightly as he can manage.

“Meanwhile I suppose you're doing polling on this?”

“We'll have a better idea of the impact tomorrow,” Eli says. “My guess is the damage is minimal. This is the best they could do, trying to dig up dirt on you, Diane. No one's going to care.”

Diane nods slowly, not sure she agrees, but in no mood to argue about it. “Is there anything I need to do here?”

“I just want you to stay away from the cameras.”

She lets out an angry little laugh. “Done.”

“And I need you to focus on debate prep.”

Diane stares off for a minute, mulling it over before she says decisively, “Tomorrow.”

“This is exactly what they want, Diane. The voters aren't going to care but it'll throw you off your game if you let it.” Eli leans forward on the table, his voice imploring. “Diane, this is the last debate and you're polling even with McVeigh, we need to--”

“We'll start tomorrow, Eli. I need a day.” She stands, looking at each one of them in turn, grateful to them but not feeling up for any further discussion. “Thank you.”

Eli shakes his head, but he lets her go. He will push her as hard as he needs to, but he knows when to stop.

She hadn't even made it to her office, and there is no point in going now. She needs to be alone. These are old wounds now, but ripped open fresh and laid bare for the world to see. She needs one day, to digest what everyone has to say about it before she can do the work of putting it out of her mind.

Diane walks out onto the street, the first gusts of cold autumn air greeting her as she raises her hand to hail a cab. As she gets into the backseat, she notices news vans just starting to pull up outside of the office. She sighs, feeling as if she's getting away just in the nick of time – until it occurs to her they are probably waiting outside her apartment building, too.

The driver turns around to face her, grinning. “Diane Lockhart, it's an honor. Where can I take you?”

She gives him her address, not indulging in his attempts to engage her beyond that. She turns to look out the window, but in the silence she realizes he is listening to news radio.

> _"…a shameful period in American politics, one we have learned Diane Lockhart's own father actively participated in..."_

He glances back at her again. “I don't care what they say about your dad. Mine was a bum, too. You still have my vote.”

She nods her acknowledgement at him, trying not to encourage any further conversation.

> _"Diane Lockhart was only a child at the time, of course, but one wonders about what attitudes about public service she learned from a man who could sell out his own best friend--"_

Diane feels her anger boiling over. She wants to hear it all, just... not yet.

“Excuse me, would you mind turning that off?”

“Not at all, Governor,” he grins back at her, switching to another station.

> _"The other question is, how much did Diane Lockhart know and when did she know it?"_

“Sorry,” he says, quickly running through the radio presets, settling on an oldies station. “That's better, eh?”

She smiles thinly, miserable but heartened to think there are people like him. This latest attempt to manufacture a scandal will fail like the others, she tries to tell herself, because the people of Illinois are better than Louis Canning and David Lee believe they are.

Her phone buzzes. Her smile deepens despite herself when she looks down to see a text from Kurt.

> _Are you all right?_

She closes her eyes, feeling more miserable and more heartened still to know that he cares.

> _I'm OK. Considering. Are you back in town?_

> _I will be tonight. Dinner?_

She allows herself to indulge in the fantasy image of eating dinner together in a restaurant, like a normal couple. Something so simple as that, that they will probably never have. But after a day of torturing herself over the news coverage, a quiet night of room service is all she will be up for, anyway. 

> _That would be wonderful._

She feels a bit calmer now, having this to look forward to. She will still torture herself in the meantime, there's no stopping that. But this is the only truly reassuring thought that she has considered since this began: she thought she needed to be alone, but there is one person in this world she needs even more to be alone with.

…......................

 

When she first walked into his hotel room, she was immediately conscious of something tentative and restrained between them, as there had been since that terrible phone call. Over dinner, there was little more than meaningless small talk about how they had spent their days since they had last seen each other. But still it is a relief just to be in his presence, absorbing his warm and relaxed ways, a kind of shelter from the storm.

He waited for her to feel ready to talk about it, which took through dinner and another drink on the couch. She had already had a glass of wine before she came, and he had a bottle waiting. By now, she feels herself warming up – partly the alcohol, and partly something thawing between them. Curled up here, her arm stretched across the back of the couch behind him, she finally feels they are gradually falling back into their usual easy harmony. And she finally feels ready to talk.

“I knew about it, of course. My investigator dug it up when she was vetting me, the first time we worked together. I should be surprised it didn't come to light sooner.”

He listens to her attentively, sipping his own drink, lightly tracing patterns on her leg with his fingertips.

“I've lived with the shame and the anger for years, but...” She shakes her head sadly. “It's different, having it out there.”

“I can't see this swaying a lot of people's opinion about you, Diane,” he says softly. “I don't think they did it because they thought it would be effective. I think they did it to be cruel.”

“This _is_ Louis Canning and David Lee we're talking about here,” she laughs bitterly.

“Well, I think most voters are intelligent enough to look past it.”

“You should hear what people are saying.” Hours spent poring over news coverage, so-called political analysis and anonymous comments have shown her a darker side of humanity.

“Those are all crazy Tea Party supporters anyway,” he jokes, waving at the air dismissively.

She smiles over at him wryly. “Isn't it funny – we always end up encouraging each other.”

He smiles too, but there is something else behind it. He looks away, down at his drink.

She studies his features, this sadness or shyness that has come over him now. She may tell him over and over that they are not on the same side, but in another equally real sense, they _are_. She hopes she hasn't discouraged him completely from believing in that. This tension between them now, she doesn't know how to clear it – or if she even should. 

_“About the other day...”_ she thinks of saying, but she cannot find any conceivable way to complete the sentence. She cannot truthfully take a word of what she said back. She can't allow him any closer, and she can't stop this altogether. So where does that leave them? 

He looks up at her again, and she sees some shadow of the hurt she knows she caused him. But his eyes are full of such patience and kindness that it's almost overwhelming. She did not come here _only_ for comfort, although she has taken it from him, and not _only_ for sex, although she supposes that is where this will lead, but she doesn't know what to say to make him understand that.

She leans forward, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his so she will not have to see that vulnerable expression, kisses him so she will not have to think of the right words. She curls one hand around his neck, pulling him closer, responding as his hand finds its way around her waist.

She kisses him until she has almost managed to forget herself.

She sits up a little, her hand still in his hair, asking him quietly, “Do you think voters could look past this, too?”

He holds her gaze steadily now, seriously, but he has no better answers than she has. “I don't know.”

The answer to that question of course is _no, absolutely not, never_ , and even he must know that. Even he must be willfully avoiding the reality of the situation now. But it was an unfair, trick question – she would not have asked it if the wine weren't starting to go to her head, his kiss making her feel fuzzier still. 

She drops her gaze, that feeling of sad futility creeping up on her again. “Let's not talk about it now,” she says softly, curling her fingers into his hair harder, as if holding on to him.

“Okay,” he says simply, leaning forward to kiss her again.

She pulls back slightly, hesitating for just a moment. It is terrible to let him think this is all she wants and knowing he will accept it anyway. But she doesn't want to think about any of it now, not her father, not the election, not the future; she just wants to be here, now, lost completely in the wine and in him.

She closes the distance between them again, pressing at first tender kisses against his lips, trying to somehow show him what she will not say. But by mutual need the kiss deepens faster than she had intended, both pressing against each other, suddenly very consciously aware of how long it has been since they were last alone together. 

“I missed this,” she whispers, and she can feel him pause, realizing too late that is the worst thing she could have said to reassure him. Not only this, but _yes_ , _this_ , and this is all she wants to focus on now...

“Me too,” he says softly, recovering quickly if her words had upset him. The thought crosses her mind that he will accept any terms he thinks she is offering, and just when she thinks it might break her heart again he catches her off guard, leaning back against the arm of the couch and pulling her down with him.

She laughs, awkwardly raising her wine glass to keep from spilling, not quite feeling her usual poised self now but the way he looks up at her with undisguised wonder makes her think that in his eyes she could never be anything but.

He looks around for a convenient place to set their glasses, grumbling when he can't find one, and can't quite reach the floor without sending her off balance again. She laughs again at how serious he looks and how unserious she feels, her brain now swirling with the effect of the wine.

She leans her forehead against him, her shoulders shaking with laughter, steadying herself with her free hand against his chest.

“Let's just go to bed,” he says, giving up and laughing now, too, pushing them both up to a sitting position, kissing her the whole way.

It is a half-drunken blur, how they moved from the couch to the bed and fumbled out of their clothes. Later she will recall the impression of this intimacy better than the particulars, moving together with less than their usual coordination, and laughing about it, kissing and touching each other endlessly. She will remember in flashes a hand on her leg, a wicked grin before he lowers his head again, his tongue running worshipfully over her breasts, but more clear is the sense that he will do anything to please her – and how that knowledge turned from something heartbreaking to something joyful – her constant overthinking becoming less guilt and more questioning: _when was the last time she prioritized something purely for her own happiness?_ And _why shouldn't she?_

And she couldn't have said if it went on for fifteen minutes or hours, couldn't quite bring to mind when she came and how, but she would have said without hesitation that it was the best sex she had ever had.

Her mind is still buzzing when they settle into lazy kisses and little touches afterward, the room still spinning if she looks much beyond him, so she keeps her focus narrowed here, closing her eyes and pulling herself a little closer.

“Can you stay?” he asks softly.

She hasn't stayed, not since their weekend in the country together. They've spent an hour here and there, carefully slipping into and out of hotel rooms, occasionally her apartment, always under darkness. She has been terrified to take the chance of staying overnight again, getting trapped there, or being seen leaving. But God, she wants to stay tonight.

“I shouldn't,” she murmurs a faint protest, letting her lips linger on his cheek.

“I know you, Diane. You'll go home and obsessively watch the news coverage all night long.”

She smiles sheepishly. “That's exactly what I would do.”

“I don't want you to be alone.”

She hesitates, her arms curling more tightly around him but the words catching in her throat. She lets her eyes drift closed again, resolving to say just this one thing that is true. 

“I don't want to be alone.”

“Then stay,” he whispers, pulling the covers up around her shoulders. 

She does not take much persuading, shifting onto her other side and snuggling back against him as he fits his body around hers. She will sleep soundly, curled up with him, and she needs to be well-rested for the grueling debate prep session Eli undoubtedly has planned to make up for today. It's a plausible justification, but she dismisses it as soon as it occurs to her. No: she is staying for no other reason than because she wants to; she selfishly, greedily, wants every moment she can have with this man, purely for her own happiness. _Why shouldn't she?_


	31. Chapter 31

The next day, Diane feels back on the top of her game, rested, renewed. The endless debate drills she had been dreading – with Eli acting as moderator, Cary playing the part of Kurt – are sailing by almost effortlessly, back in fighting form after a good night's sleep in the arms of the enemy. 

And Eli is impressed by the difference, too, nodding smugly at her quick and sharp responses, appreciating how deftly she cuts down her imaginary opponent – not knowing that at the same time she is recalling, in the back of her mind, his sweet goodbye kisses just hours ago, the last little touches before she had finished dressing.

“What about your father?” Eli barks out the question, intending to throw her off.

“What about my father?” She throws the question back, a challenging edge in her voice.

“Recently it came to light that your father, a beloved figure in Chicago politics in his own right, made choices during the McCarthy era that many have called cowardly, hypocritical, amoral. What would you say to voters who now question the integrity of the Lockhart name?”

“I would say that I am not my father. I have my own lengthy record and my own life of personal and political choices that I would welcome anyone to examine.”

Cary, imitating Kurt, jumps in with an exaggerated drawl that almost makes her laugh every time. “You don't think honor matters at all?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I absolutely believe people should be held accountable for their actions, and judged for the sum total of their life. If this changes the way people think about my father, I don't blame them. I loved my father, and this changes the way I think about him, too. But it has zero bearing on how you should think of me.”

“Good,” Eli jumps in, dropping his debate moderator role. “That's tough, but heartfelt. Stick to the accountability thing.”

Diane nods. Difficult as it is to say, she believes it.

“Okay, good work. I think we can take a quick break.”

Diane turns to Cary as they walk off their makeshift stage, smiling wryly. “Your McVeigh impression is all right, but for the record, he would never ask that question.”

“Too much of a gentleman, I got it,” he laughs.

Eli pulls Diane aside, looking positively giddy about her performance. “I was worried yesterday, I'm not going to lie. But I'll admit it put you back on track. What did you do after you left here?”

“Just be glad it was effective and leave it at that,” she grins back at him, turning away once she is sure he has caught her meaning.

A moment later, Cary's exaggerated laughter distracts them both. She looks over at him and sees it's something on his phone that's cracking him up.

“What's so funny?” Eli demands.

“Looks like they decided to go after McVeigh before the debate, too. This should take some of the heat off of you,” he says, looking up at Diane.

“What is it?” Diane moves toward him. Part of her is relieved if that's true, but part of her is now worried for Kurt's sake. 

Cary raises his eyebrows suggestively. “The so-called 'Mystery Woman' has made a repeat appearance.” 

“What?” Diane and Eli say in unison, both horrified and trying to hide it, exchanging a glance Cary does not fully understand.

“Someone snapped a picture of her leaving his hotel room this morning – and now it's like a game, everyone on the internet trying to identify her.”

“Let me see that,” Eli wrenches the phone out of his hand.

“And a dozen women have come forward so far claiming it's them,” he laughs.

Eli shoves the phone at Diane, scowling.

Cary goes on laughing, oblivious to how disturbed they are by this news. “I don't get it, is he really that attractive?”

Diane ignores him, feeling sick as she looks down at the image on his phone. That is indeed a picture of her just that morning, albeit of her back and from some distance down the hall. Looking at it closely, she doesn't think there is anything that could be identified as hers; something about the lighting makes her hair look a good deal darker than it really is, and of indefinite length. But sure enough, that is the same black trench coat draped over a chair across the room now, the same purse sitting next to it on the floor.

Eli clears his throat. “Cary, can you grab a file I left on my desk? I need it for the next round of questions. Nora will know which one I mean.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, taking his phone back from Diane, who had been holding on to it a little bit too tightly. “Really thought you guys would find that more funny.”

Diane waits until the door closes behind him, but goes immediately on the offensive before Eli can. “Eli, I don't want to hear it.”

“Oh, no, Diane, we're way beyond fits and lectures,” he says, shaking his head. “The time for talking about warding off disaster has passed. We're officially in damage control mode now.”

She throws up her hands in exasperation. “No one could possibly identify me from that picture!”

“From that picture, maybe not. You think it's the only one? You think no one's going to get into the hotel security footage?”

Diane opens her mouth to argue, but finds she cannot. She realizes he is probably very right to be paranoid this time.

“What hotel?” he barks, starting to type furiously on his phone.

She hesitates for a moment. But there is nothing left to do but help him do his job.

“The Edgewater.”

“Room number?”

“836.”

“I'll have Kalinda check it out.” He is terrifyingly calm. She almost wishes he was acting like his usual crazed self, the way he does when he is only dealing in fear and speculation. He clicks off his phone and starts putting on his coat. “Cary can take debate prep from here.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“I'm going to talk to Jennifer Barkley. Does she know about this, _this_ –” He searches, then gives up trying to find a word for it. “-- about the two of you?”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Well, she's about to find out. So if you want to give McVeigh a heads up, you'd better do it now.”

“What are you planning to do, Eli?” She begins to follow him to the door.

“When – not if, but _when_ – it gets out that you are the Mystery Woman, Diane, I want our campaigns to have our stories coordinated. Maybe we'll say you've been meeting in secret to make some kind of backroom deal. That's a lot less scandalous in Chicago politics than just sex.”

His words sting, but he is right – and she knows it is worse than that. A backroom deal would be a lot less scandalous than just sex. And much, _much_ less scandalous than what is really happening. 

Eli leaves, letting the door close hard behind him. She paces for a minute, anxiously running her hand through her hair, silently cursing herself. She knew she shouldn't have stayed. Maybe the same thing would have happened if she had left earlier – she shouldn't have gone at all. But for that matter, maybe this was always likely to happen, sooner or later... 

She made space in her life for something purely for her own happiness, and now look what has happened. 

Angry with herself for allowing this to happen and angry with herself for blaming it on something so _good_ , she lets out a little scream of frustration. She walks over to her purse and grabs her own phone, finding there are several texts waiting from Kurt, received sporadically over the last hour or so.

> _Are you watching the news?_   
>   
> _I don't know how this happened._   
>   
> _I'm afraid someone on my staff was involved._   
>   
> _No one is going to think it's you._   
>   
> _Are we ok?_   
>   
> _Diane?_   
> 

She knows it isn't really about whether or not this would have happened if she hadn't stayed. She stayed because she needed him. She came in the first place because she needed him. She needs him now. She had never intended to let it go this far. She shouldn't have let it go this far. 

> _We have made such a huge mistake._

She types the words quickly, stopping before she hits send. She looks at it in hard black and white. These are the words she needs to confront. She let this get out of her control, and she is not sure she has ever done that before. It was a _mistake_. A _huge mistake_.

She stares directly at that word until she can't take it any longer, closing her eyes against it.

_And for what?_ She asks herself again, as she did the first time they were nearly caught. She knows the answer to that question now. But she isn't sure if it's worth it.

Finally, if only so she can stop tormenting herself over it, if only so she can make sure she is not alone in this, she sends the message.

She sees the notification that he is typing a response pop up, then stop, then start again. Then it vanishes again, and long moments pass with no reply.

He has erased what he was going to say and he is not going to say anything more. She winces; she knows she has hurt him again. She does not want to be alone in this, but all she has done is include him in her misery. He never would have called it a mistake. 

She starts to type again:

> _Let's talk later._

But again she hesitates before hitting send. They can't take the chance of being seen together now – that would be insane. And she isn't sure if she can make clear how she feels over the phone.

Before she can make up her mind, Cary comes back in. “I couldn't find that file at all, Nora had no idea what you--” He stops abruptly. “Where's Eli?”

Diane pulls herself together, answering him evenly. “He had to go take care of something.”

“Everything all right?”

Like yesterday, her first instinct is to leave, find Kurt, hide in her feelings for him for a few hours until the worst of this has passed. But that is exactly what she cannot afford to do anymore. She needs to focus, put every last bit of her energy into the debate tomorrow.

“Yes, fine. Let's go on without him. You ready?”

“Yeah.” He looks at her as if he isn't convinced that there is nothing more going on here. “You?”

She nods definitely. “I'm ready.”


	32. Chapter 32

After the debate, after the interviews and the spin, after Eli's endless post-game analysis, Diane finally finds a moment to unwind at the hotel bar, a martini in hand and reams of live polling data in front of her. To any casual observer, she would appear to be diligently reviewing her debate performance and planning her next moves. And that was her intent. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, she can't help but replay only the moments between herself and Kurt, parsing for meaning and significance – not to the campaign, but to their relationship. 

She had tried to find him before the debate. It was motivated by careful calculation as much as it was by the needs of the heart. It would break her concentration to see him, yes. But she knew it would be even worse to be left wondering. 

And she was left wondering, unable to find him before the three candidates came to wait for their cue in the wings. She tried to put it out of her mind, telling herself his silence was nothing. It was hard to believe a man like him could hide intentionally. But then again, even he must need to act to protect himself from time to time.

She knew it was not nothing as soon as they walked out onto the stage, all smiles for the audience and the camera, looking for all the world exactly as they had in the two prior debates. But privately, that invisible yet palpable secret spark between them was gone now, no flirtation or teasing this time, leaving only a cursory handshake and a businesslike smile.

The debate itself went well enough, for both of them – most commentators agreeing they were evenly matched again and left in a tie, but everyone noted that this time the whole affair seemed flat and strained, characterized by terse exchanges, dry policy talk, and a complete avoidance of direct engagement. Despite the scandal du jour, the analysts couldn't have known what lie behind the sudden change in tone. But Diane could no longer hope there might be any other explanation.

He was hurt, and he was angry. And it was entirely her fault.

And so he was avoiding her, or seemed to be. He disappeared just as quickly after the debate, with another rote handshake and a forced smile for everyone but her. She tried to find him again, but she was quickly swept up in all of the post-debate rituals, no prospect of a post-debate assignation, and not a moment to think until she found herself here.

But now, unable to stop debating herself over what she could have said differently and what she should say now, he seems to have found her.

She looks up to see Kurt walk into the hotel bar. His eyes lock on hers for a moment, and she notices him waver, as if trying to decide whether he should stay or go. Finally, perhaps resolving that he cannot live his life by avoiding her, he looks away and finds a table on the other side of the room, his back to her. 

And now there is no thought in her mind at all but the tension in his shoulders she recognizes even from across the room, his hair falling onto his forehead as it always does as he busies himself checking messages, his lips curling around the rim of his glass as he sips the whiskey he ordered.

She shakes her head, angry with herself again. She can sit here staring uselessly, leave here miserable, or she can try to talk to him one more time, and know for certain how he feels.

Not allowing herself another moment to hesitate, she texts him:

> _Do you mind if I join you?_

She watches as his shoulders seize up as soon as the message flashes onto his screen. It's not fair and she knows it, being able to see his reaction, knowing how much time passes between receipt and response.

It is an uncomfortably long time, during which he does nothing but sip his drink and stare off. He knows she is watching, and that isn't fair, either, to let her wait and worry. She is almost prepared to take that for rejection, when finally a message comes across:

> _If you want to._

It isn't exactly encouraging, but it's all she's likely to get, and perhaps all she deserves.

She crosses the room, silently assuring herself against her lingering nerves over that photograph. A little post-debate goading would not be unusual. She has shared a drink with many opponents over the years. This isn't a secret meeting; she's hardly going to drag him into a dark corner and have her way with him.

No matter how much she may want to.

She pulls out the chair across the table from him, testing the waters with a faint smile. His face is stony, unreadable, but she knows that beneath it, he is just as torn up as she is.

“Hi,” she says lightly, sitting.

“Hello,” is all he offers in return.

A few people at tables nearby have already noticed them sitting together, pointing and whispering to their companions. But Diane tells herself again that it all looks perfectly innocent, as long as she resists the urge to reach across the table and take his hand, as long as she keeps her demeanor professional and bright. She sits up straighter, putting on her best campaign face. She trusts he will know the expression is for the benefit of their observers, and far from what she wants to show him. 

“You didn't respond to my text,” she says softly, careful not to sound accusing.

“Didn't seem like there was much to say,” he shrugs.

“Kurt, I was terrified when I saw that story at first. I reacted emotionally.”

“And after you had some time to think about it? You didn't say anything else later.”

“I know,” she says regretfully. “I didn't know what to say, to be honest.”

“Do you really think this was a mistake?”

She winces, stung by the question, but forces herself to recapture a neutral expression. “I know how it sounds, but Kurt, if this endangers our campaigns... No, this is not more important than the future of this state, the lives of everyone in it.”

He nods slowly, digesting this. “I agree with you, Diane, but somehow I can't bring myself to want to take back a single moment.”

“I don't want to either, Kurt.” She allows herself to smile warmly at him for a moment, hoping that he will at least believe that.

She can't retract the word. She can't apologize for it. It is objectively a mistake – but one she knows for certain she wants to keep making.

He leans forward, his voice gentle but deliberate. “This isn't even about you, that picture. As far as anyone is concerned, this is just about me. No one ever needs to know it's you. But you act like it's your head on the chopping block.”

“It very well could be.”

“But it's not now. I'm the one who has to dodge questions and lie and hide a big part of my life, when all I really want to do is live honestly.”

“I'm sorry, Kurt.” For that, she is sorry, but at the same time she can't help but see a glimmer of hope in his words – _a big part of his life._

“And two nights ago, I was there for you when it was you under fire.”

She closes her eyes, mortified now to see it from his perspective. “I know. I'm sorry.”

He sighs, backing off, sitting against his chair again and sipping on his whiskey. “Your campaign manager talked to mine. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” she admits.

“She went crazy. By comparison, he took it in stride when he found out.”

“He thought our campaigns should have the same story ready, if we ever need to use it.”

“Well, she had some other ideas. She thought it would be a good idea to find our own Mystery Woman, pay her to act like my girlfriend, get people to stop sniffing around.”

“Oh dear God,” Diane rolls her eyes.

“Jennifer figured this woman would do one exclusive interview, and then I'd need to be photographed with her a few times. Ideally, we'd be caught kissing to really sell it. And then after the election this woman could just vanish with a nice fat check.”

The very idea of it is absurd, but just picturing it is making her feel sick.

“So I fired her.”

“Oh, Kurt.”

“I don't know why I ever thought hiring a veteran campaign manager was a good idea, except that you told me I should. It probably was the right thing to do, and I just don't have the stomach for it. I'm absolutely disgusted by what I've seen in this campaign. Just like you told me I would be.”

“I didn't want to be right about that,” she says wryly.

He goes on, brushing past her attempt to lighten the mood. “For the last two weeks, I'm cutting everything negative out of my campaign. I'm going to run the kind of campaign I joined this race to run. I don't care if it costs me the election.”

“What else?” she asks him, suddenly dreading the answer.

“I've been thinking a lot about –” he stops abruptly, gesturing between her and him as if there is no word that seems right to describe it: not 'our relationship,' not even 'us.' “I would never give you an ultimatum, Diane. For one thing, that's not who I am. And I know if I did, you'd choose your campaign and end this.”

She shakes her head silently, as if to say _no, whatever you are about to say, just don't, don't talk._

“But I can't keep sneaking around. If that's really all we're ever going to be...”

He trails off, but she doesn't need to hear any more. She isn't sure she can hear this and try to look normal for a room full of strangers while her heart is breaking.

She raises one hand to stop him. “Kurt, I think we should put this conversation on hold until after the election.”

“You said yourself it wouldn't be any easier after one of us is elected. You're right, it won't be.”

“What do you want me to do, stand up in front of all of these people and tell them I want to be with you?”

“It's not about wanting you to do anything, Diane,” he says, and his voice is so soft now that she understands finally he isn't really angry so much as resigned. “Sometimes it's just the situation itself.” 

“Kurt...” She starts to argue, but she doesn't know what to say.

“I said I don't want to lie and mislead for the rest of my campaign. That's true. But I will make one exception. If we are exposed, if you want me to say anything, or not say anything, to protect you as much as I can, I will do that. If you want me to say it was some kind of political deal, and nothing personal, I will.”

“Kurt...” Again she struggles for the words. She wants to say _let's take a walk, let's go back to my room, I'm in pain and I want you to kiss me until I forget it_ , but none of those things will do now. And she can't say _don't do this_ , because she has no alternative to offer him. She sees no clear way for this to work, either; she just isn't prepared to let it go.

He lays some cash down on the table and stands, and she knows he is leaving at least in part because she is barely keeping it together now and he wants to spare her that in front of dozens of people. Perhaps he isn't sure how much longer he can keep it together himself.

He moves to stand next to her for a moment, close enough that she could reach out and pull him to her, and it's taking every bit of control she has now not to do exactly that. 

“You put the people you serve first, and that's something I've always admired about you, Diane. I think you're probably right, too, but I...” She hears his voice break slightly. “I can't do anything halfway. So I have to go.”

She watches him walk away, feeling as if she is in shock, unable to believe that the last time they were together could really have been the last time they ever would be together. She felt so close to him that night, she had let him into parts of herself she had never allowed anyone to see – how can he call that _halfway_ now? 

Because she has never told him, and she still can't say it now.

She still can't say _don't go._


	33. Chapter 33

Diane yawns, checking the clock, considering breaking her personal rule against afternoon coffee. She is used to functioning on very little sleep, but the past two nights have taken a toll. She isn't sure she slept even one hour all the night before at the hotel, and all that morning on the bus trip back. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind conjured the image of him on the other side of the bed, one arm draped lazily around her waist. Frustrated, she would snap on the bedside lamp and try to read until she felt so exhausted she was sure she would fall asleep immediately. But as soon as she closed her eyes again, there he was. This cycle continued all night, and she isn't at all confident she will have any better luck tonight, back in her own bed.

Almost certainly not, as her sheets will still smell faintly of him. 

“I have post-debate numbers.”

Diane looks up sharply to see Eli standing in her doorway, waving a thick file.

“And you're smiling.” She sits back in her chair, welcoming the distraction.

“I am!” He walks in and plops down in the chair across from her, pausing for effect. “You're pulling out ahead again – 38 to 34.”

“To...?” she prompts.

“Oh, Lyman?” He looks down. “21. He's an also-ran. A fringe candidate at this point. Forget him.”

She does the math quickly. “That's still a lot of undecideds, though.”

“You sound like me,” he scoffs. “Can't you enjoy this for a moment?”

After last night, her capacity for truly enjoying anything is low. “What else?”

He scans the report, looking for any other interesting trends. “The debate wasn't a game-changer, not a lot of people said they changed their mind based on anyone's performance. Total snoozefest. Why were you so boring again?”

“Skip it, Eli,” she says pointedly.

“That's fine, I'll take that over a last-minute surprise anyway.” He flips through the pages. “Let's see... We asked in detail about your father, less than 10% consider it a factor in their choice. Nothing Canning and Lee have tried has gained any real traction. Oh, although we did ask about McVeigh's Mystery Woman, a lot of people are saying it makes them question his judgment and trustworthiness.”

Diane shakes her head, disgusted but not surprised.

“You pretty effectively sabotaged him there, even if it was unintentional. Nicely done.”

“Please,” she says, his attitude testing her patience. She doesn't find it a bit funny, and he should know better.

“All right,” he backs off, knowing he's treading on thin ice here. “Seriously, though, Diane – I know you don't want to hear it, but... With only a little more than two weeks to go, I need you to be smart about that.”

“There's no need to say anything about it, Eli.”

“Why is there no need?”

“Because I'm not seeing him anymore.” She looks him dead in the eyes, a dangerous, challenging look. “Are you happy?”

There is no point in answering her question; his reaction to the news couldn't be any more obvious.

But despite his personal feelings he can see that she is upset, and in his awkward, stilted way he tries to comfort her. “Well, I'm sorry --”

Diane scowls, finding his feeble attempt at sympathy more irritating than his teasing. “You don't have to do that.”

“Okay,” he says, clearly relieved. He stands to go, making a last effort at encouragement. “Two more weeks! Just need to push through to the end.”

She rolls her eyes, feeling twice as exhausted after that conversation as she did before. If this is really the way the next two weeks are going to go...

She buzzes her assistant. “Carol, can you bring me a cup of coffee?”

 

….................................

 

In the days that follow, Diane is busy enough that she doesn't have time to dwell on it. She changes her sheets. Sleep takes her eventually. Gradually, she stops instinctively checking for the messages from him she had become used to seeing throughout the day; she learns to resist the frequent urge to text something to him. 

But she cannot get very far away from him, even if she wants to. His face is on posters all over town. His voice is on radio advertisements every time she turns it on. Once she actually found herself getting emotional over the _“My name is Kurt McVeigh and I approve this message”_ tag at the end of a campaign commercial and almost chucked her remote at the screen. She could so easily imagine him standing in the recording studio, grumbling as they asked him to recite it for the fiftieth time. 

And of course she cannot escape him on the evening news every night. 

Curled up in bed with Justice at her side, she feels that unpleasant but now familiar sensation as the anchor leads into an interview with him: half excitement, half dread. Perhaps if she does win, he will drop out of public life, go back to his beautiful cabin in the woods, and she will not have to be reminded daily of what she has lost.

But as she watches him talk about his ideas, gesticulating wildly as he always does when he begins to get fired up about something, she knows he has something important to contribute. His specific positions on the issues still enrage her, but she respects his intelligence and his integrity, she knows he speaks for a lot of people who need a voice. She wouldn't want him to give up; she would depend upon him to keep challenging her. And it might be good to keep at least that connection to him. 

There's no clearer way out of this apart than there was together, but she supposes it must get easier with time. For now, there is this exquisite pleasure-pain of watching him from afar.

> _“Heading into the homestretch now, you're a few points behind Diane Lockhart. Can you still come back to win it?”_
> 
> _“Well, it's still a very close race, and I'm not giving up. I'm going to be out there every day from dawn till dark talking to people about my ideas for reform and renewed prosperity. I think it's still very much anyone's game. I've enjoyed fighting with Diane Lockhart this whole time; I'll enjoy it right up until the end.”_
> 
> _“Do you have any regrets about the way the campaign has been run? Anything you might do differently that could have changed the outcome?”_
> 
> _“Ask me that after I find out if I've won or lost! But seriously – of course, I know there are always things I can do better. I learned a lot just talking to voters, participating in the process, seeing up close how it really works – yeah, there are things I would do differently if I ever ran again. I don't really look back, though. I'm not big on regrets.”_
> 
> _“What do you think about this frenzy over your so-called Mystery Woman? Is that a regret?”_
> 
> _“Well, I think it's a shame that some people find the most interesting thing about this race to be something they can see a lot more of on a reality show, yeah. I regret that more people don't want to engage on the issues. But do I regret her, even if it did hurt my campaign? No. Absolutely not.”_

As the interviewer thanks him and throws it back to the newsdesk, Kurt looks straight into the camera for a moment and Diane feels as if he is staring straight at her. Many times through their flirtation and their affair she felt as if he were sending her little messages through his interviews, and there's no reason why he shouldn't now, after it's over. 

She just wishes he didn't have to be so _wonderful_ about it. She clicks off the television, deciding that's enough torment for one night.

Justice shifts a little, letting out a whimper and resting her head in Diane's lap.

“I know,” Diane sighs, scratching the dog behind her ears. “I miss him, too.”


	34. Chapter 34

“Happy Election Day!” the whole floor of volunteers erupts into a cheer the moment Diane walks into campaign headquarters.

Diane almost doubles over in laughter. “It's not Election Day yet!”

Cary and Eli cross the floor to meet her, both grinning. 

“Yeah, but right now thousands of people are lining up to vote for you,” Cary says, pointing at the television news playing in the front of the room. “That's pretty exciting.”

“We have teams outside every Early Voting location, and volunteers out providing rides,” Eli explains, obviously pleased with how smoothly everything is going. “Everyone left here is on the phone getting out the vote.”

“Well, until we saw you coming – they wanted to surprise you,” Cary laughs, then yells out to the floor. “All right, back on the phones, everyone!”

“We'll win this before Election Day even comes,” Eli says, his expression coming close to elation.

“I wish you weren't so overconfident,” Diane says warily, although even she can't help but feel excited by the scene in front of her.

“Just don't _you_ get overconfident and everything will be fine. You have three rallies later today – don't worry, we won't be slowing down.”

“Oh, I'm not worried about that,” she laughs.

“Hey, um, guys?” One of the young volunteers tries to get their attention, turning up the television.

“Yeah, I think we should see this...” Cary says, squinting at the news report.

> _“As voters begin to head to early voting locations all over the state this morning, we have some shocking breaking news to share – that may just change your mind about who you're voting for.”_

“What now?” Eli scowls, more irritated than anything.

> _“Many will recall the photograph released a week ago of a woman leaving the hotel room of Gubernatorial candidate Kurt McVeigh early in the morning...”_

“Nevermind, sorry, I didn't realize it was more of this crap,” Cary waves it off dismissively. But as he looks over at them, he realizes Eli and Diane are watching raptly, both standing with their arms crossed, looking suddenly worried.

> _“An anonymous tipster sent Channel Two hotel security camera footage of the same incident, and as the woman turns the corner...”_

They let the video roll, and even in grainy black-and-white, there is no mistaking it.

> _“The woman in the video is clearly his Democratic opponent, Diane Lockhart.”_

Diane closes her eyes, aware that everyone is now looking at her and not the television, the noise level in the room going up as they start debating what this means. The phones in the room have already started ringing off the hook.

“What the hell?” Cary blurts out, looking back and forth between Eli and Diane.

> _“Now, just a clarification, we do not know for what purpose Diane Lockhart visited Kurt McVeigh, but we have confirmed with the Edgewater Hotel that the tape is authentic and it certainly appears as if--”_

Diane doesn't wait to hear what it appears to be, walking away to her office, shutting the door hard behind her. Not even a minute passes before Eli follows her, and seconds later Cary, each letting the door slam in turn.

“Diane, what is this?” Cary demands.

“Cary, calm down,” Eli spits, as if he is acting like a petulant child.

“What, you knew about it?”

“Yes, of course I knew about it, I know about everything!”

Cary rolls his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “Please, God, tell me it's not what it looks like.”

“It is exactly what it looks like,” Diane says with a quietly controlled anger. He is acting as if he has been personally offended, and she finds she has no patience for it today. “Now grow up.”

“Should I start updating my resume right now?” Cary counters, his tone still sarcastic and bitter.

Eli steps in front of the younger man, as if asserting that no one is allowed to talk to her that way but him. “Come on, kid. If you haven't managed a sex scandal yet, this will be great experience for you.”

“Tell me you didn't freak when you found out!”

“That's not the fucking point, Cary! We have no time for anything but action now. So if you'd like to rant and sulk, get out.” He points at the door, letting the message sink in for several moments. “Otherwise, get it together and get on board right now.”

“Fine,” Cary sighs, backing down. “You're telling me you have a game plan?”

“I've been planning for this day since I found out, what do you think?” Eli turns back to Diane, making his case. “All they can prove is you visited his hotel room. So we say exactly what we talked about, say it was some kind of negotiation, a backroom deal, yes, but one that never came to fruition. Maybe we say you offered to give him an advisory position in your administration if he dropped out of the race and endorsed you.”

Diane sits at her desk quietly, considering all this, her fingers steepled under her chin. 

Eli goes on orchestrating the campaign response, not waiting for her endorsement. “Cary, I need you to monitor the public and press reaction, and start working on a statement. We need to get her out there sooner than later.”

He hesitates for only a moment, grudgingly accepting this new reality. “Okay.”

“Meanwhile I'll have Kalinda talk to her contacts at Channel 2, see what they can tell her about where the tape came from. If we can trace it back to Canning/Lee, we can expose them for one of their dirty plays finally.”

Diane narrows her eyes thoughtfully. “Why do you think they held onto it until now?”

Eli shrugs. “Lyman would have botched it in the debate. They're better off waiting until the spotlight was off him, pushing it behind the scenes.”

“But they had the video when they first released the photo. They sat on it.”

“Probably,” Eli agrees.

“They waited until today, the first day of early voting.”

Diane follows it through to its logical conclusion. They have played this like a chess game, and she doubts they have played their strongest piece yet. If they push back on this video, they'll have five more coming after it. They'll twist it. They'll make it into something other than what it was. She'll be playing defense for the rest of the campaign, retreating further back, forced to tell lie after lie just to stay alive until they finally checkmate her.

There's only one real way to get in front of this.

Eli has already moved on, still in action mode. “Can you ask McVeigh to say the same thing?”

“He would, if I asked him,” she says softly.

“Great, so, let's get to work.” Eli nods once decisively, about to rush out the door.

“Just one minute.” She raises a hand to stop him, her voice quiet but commanding. “I'm not sure I want to ask him to do that.”

Eli flashes her a patronizing look. “Diane, I need you to put your personal feelings aside for five minutes and call him.”

All of the tension she felt since the shock of seeing that video resolves into laughter now – but oh, let him think that's why she doesn't want to do this. 

He goes on trying to persuade her, ignoring her response. “As long as we're coordinated, we can say it's a lie, we can expose Canning and Lee for what they are.”

“But it's not a lie this time.” The slightest hint of a smile plays across her face.

“Sorry, I must be missing something. So what?”

Diane stands, feeling oddly relieved and unburdened by this turn of events after all. Their latest move has given her the chance to take control of the situation, no longer optionless, a victim of circumstance, buffeted about by the waves others have set into motion.

“Cary, I don't need you to write me a statement. Just arrange the press conference.” She sets her shoulders, ready for this battle. “I know what I have to say.”


	35. Chapter 35

As Eli and Cary work out the details of her press conference, there is little for Diane to do but wait. She does not need a statement to be written out for her, nor does she intend to write one out for herself. Now that the decision is made, she could stand up and speak her mind at a moment's notice – and she is anxious to do exactly that. For a while, she alternates between pacing her office and staring out the window at the city, out at the world that is about to change for her completely. There is nothing else she can think to do until the time comes; for now, she is determined not to obsess over the press response. There isn't much they can say that she hasn't already imagined, and confirming her suspicions can wait until later. 

There is nothing else she can think to do... except reach out to the one other person who knows exactly how she feels right now. As soon as the thought crosses her mind, she grabs her cell phone and dials, not allowing a moment to second-guess herself. 

“Hello?” 

He answers almost immediately, and she can hear the surprise in his voice in just that one word. He didn't think she would call. Maybe she shouldn't have called. But she feels full of surprises today.

“Hey,” she says softly, smiling despite it all just to be talking to him again.

“Are you okay?” 

She winces slightly. It kills her to know that even now, his first thought is to ask if she is okay.

“I'm okay, considering. You?”

“Well... it is what it is.”

She sighs, staring out at the city again. “Deep down, I think we always knew this day would come.”

“Yeah.”

His responses are terse, and it occurs to her that he would prefer to keep this conversation short. The thought stings but she can't blame him, not after everything that has happened.

“Anyway – are you going to speak to the press?”

“Yeah. In about 15 minutes. Is there anything you want me to say?”

She hesitates. They could still go forward with Eli's plan; perhaps it could salvage both of their campaigns. All she would have to do is tell him what the story should be. But she has made up her mind about that. 

“I think you should say what you want, Kurt. I won't ask you to lie.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” An uncomfortably long silence passes, as Diane debates whether to say any more. But she has made up her mind about that, too: she is going to say how she feels. “I saw your interview the other day. For what it's worth, Kurt, I don't regret any of it, either. No matter what.”

“I'm glad.” She can tell he doesn't quite know what to say to this, but there is a warmth there that he had been carefully avoiding before.

He really never knew, she realizes, horrified. He really never knew.

Taken aback, she ends the conversation lamely. “Well, I – I should let you go prepare.”

“Yeah. I'm heading over now.” He pauses, perhaps searching for the right thing to say himself. “Don't let them see you sweat, Diane.”

Halting and awkward as they may be with each other now, she is smiling to herself as she ends the call. No matter what, she will make sure that he knows.

She waits until his time to speak to turn on the news, keeping the broadcast muted until she sees him approaching the podium. She is not going to torment herself over their speculation and asinine commentary this time. It just doesn't seem worth it now.

When he walks out onto the stage finally, he looks momentarily bewildered by the barrage of camera flashes. She knows exactly how he feels, and what she has to look forward to herself very soon. He clears his throat and relaxes his gaze, sounding firm and articulate as he begins to speak.

> _This morning a video was released showing my opponent, Diane Lockhart, leaving my room at the Edgewater Hotel a little over a week ago. The meeting in question was a private matter, and I would ask that our privacy be respected. The attention that has been given to this video is the lowest form of sensationalism, the latest in a string of attempts to drive the focus away from the substance of this race to irrelevant and petty details. Once again, I would call upon the press and the public to concentrate on the important political issues before us, and from this point forward I will only be responding to inquiries of that nature. Thank you._

He walks off the stage, ignoring the roar of questions and another flurry of photographs. Diane clicks off the television again once he has gone, not caring any more than he does to see their reaction. She smiles, proud of him for not giving an inch, although appealing to a right to privacy is unlikely to sway anyone. His remarks were brief and vague, but he must have thought that was what she wanted. He was still trying to offer her cover, while leaving the door open for her to say almost anything.

“Diane?” Eli appears in her doorway. “You ready?”

She looks up at him wryly. “Time to go to slaughter already?”

“There's still time to change your mind.”

“No,” she says, standing and straightening her jacket. “If the people of Illinois are honestly more offended by an affair than by a plot to rig an election, then I'm not sure I want to serve them. So this turns out to be a good test.”

Eli plainly disagrees, but he says no more, standing aside for her to walk out the door. For him, it has always been about winning. Diane has always needed it to mean slightly more. Today, she is just looking to raise the bar a little bit higher.

 

…..........................

 

She stands in the wings, waiting for her cue. She feels surprisingly calm, resolute – ready to define the race herself in a way she has not been able to for months. She will not be backed into a corner, and she will not sacrifice one thing in her life for another. She may still lose one or the other; there is no guarantee. But now it seems clear to her that the better path is to live her life on her own terms and let the chips fall where they may. To live truthfully – and win or lose with the truth.

She takes a deep breath. She is ready to say something real now, and the whole world might as well hear it.

“You're on,” Eli whispers, sending her off with a last twisted smile. On some level, even he understands it. Perhaps it isn't too much of a leap to expect anyone else to, too.

But even if it is, she is sure.

As she walks out, she is greeted by the same volley of camera flashes, and in the same moment, the din of a hundred chattering voices resolves into absolute silence, all eyes on her. She has given more press conferences in her life than she could possibly count, but never before has she felt so on display, such a human spectacle.

It is absurd, this obsessive interest in something so basic as her heart.

She takes a moment to look at each section of the room, her head high, her eyes challenging and lively. When she finally speaks, her voice is strong and unwavering.

“A short while ago, you heard from Kurt McVeigh on what you now know to be a private meeting that took place between the two of us. There has been a great deal of speculation in the press as well, and I imagine there will continue to be. I would like to take this opportunity to tell my side of the story, and as Mr McVeigh also indicated, this is the first and last time I will speak on the matter before I turn back to the serious issues at the heart of this campaign.

“I met Kurt McVeigh shortly after he entered the race this summer. Although we did not agree on almost anything politically, and we still do not, I found that I very genuinely liked him on a personal level. We quickly became friendly and, much to our surprise, it developed into more.

“The video in question is very likely not the only one that exists. Kurt McVeigh and I have spent time in each other's company on multiple occasions. During this time, we did not make any special arrangements with regard to our political campaigns, disclose sensitive information, or coordinate in an unethical manner. Our personal relationship was something quite separate from our political relationship, and I would ask every voter to look at it that way, too.

“As you decide how to cast your ballot, judge me for my record, for my positions on the issues, and for my plans for the state of Illinois. If you disagree with me or find my character deficient in any other respect, then please, do vote against me. But don't for this. Not for love.”

She walks off the stage just as assuredly as she came, ignoring their frenzied questions just as Kurt had done. Whatever the consequences may be, she said exactly what she wanted to say.

Eli is there waiting afterward, with a proud half-smile on his face. He would have advised her to do the exact opposite, but he can't help but be impressed by the way she carried it off.

“No regrets?” he asks, falling into step beside her.

“Nope,” she responds without hesitation.

“It could get ugly.”

“I know.” She slows and then stops walking for a moment, looking over at him seriously. “You still with me?” 

“To the bitter end,” he confirms. “So, you tell me. What's the plan now?”

She thinks this over for a moment, then looks down at her watch. “If we hurry, we'll still make it to the first rally on time.”

“Attagirl!” he grins back, and they set off again striding down the hall.

 

….............................................

 

After an afternoon of campaign stops, Diane is starting to get an idea just how _ugly_ ugly can be. Even in friendly crowds, she was heckled each time she referenced a McVeigh policy proposal. They had to cut short the meet-and-greet portion of the last two rallies after she was insulted in front of a camera at the first, nearly starting a fistfight when another supporter came to her defense. Now, back home, she is still avoiding turning on the news. However thick-skinned and certain she may be, there is only so much she can take for one day. 

Her phone rings across the room and she almost dives for it, eager for the distraction of any friendly voice, even if it's only Eli with a late-night brainstorm for the perfect post-sex-scandal stump speech.

She is almost surprised to see that it is Kurt.

“Hey,” she answers, walking back to sit on the edge of her bed. 

“Tired of this yet?” he asks sheepishly.

“Oh, no, I thought what this campaign needed was a little more excitement,” she laughs.

“That was quite a speech.”

“Thank you.” She smiles nervously, biting her lip slightly. She said what she said for herself, not explicitly to win him back. But now that he has reached out, she is anxious to know how he feels.

“I'm sure Eli didn't like it.” He is stalling, and she doesn't know whether that is a good or bad sign.

“I won him over, in the end.”

“People are going to say a lot of nasty things, Diane.”

“I know. But they were going to say them, either way.” 

She slides back against the bed, curling her legs underneath her. Just to be able to talk to him again at the end of a long day is a comfort.

“What made you change your mind?”

“I decided you were right about something you said the last time we talked. Well – you were right about a lot of things,” she laughs lightly. “But one thing you said really stayed with me. I want to tell the truth, too.”

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Somehow it is harder to say to him now than it was to say to millions earlier.

“I do love you, Kurt.”

“I love you, too, Diane.”

She lets out the breath she realizes she had been holding in a relieved, overjoyed burst of air.

“I know it doesn't change everything else, but I...” She trails off, lost in her emotions. But a moment later, she sits up straight, determined to articulate exactly what she wants. “I'm not sure what a future for us looks like, but I know I want you in it.”

“I think we're on the exact same page, then.”

“Good,” she laughs, feeling thrilled and soothed all at once. “But first I need to kick your ass.”

“I wouldn't expect anything less,” he laughs too.

She leans back against the headboard, closing her eyes. This is wonderful – but this is agonizing, too. “God, I want to see you. But every network is camped out outside my apartment. They're going to be hounding us everywhere we go now.”

“I know,” he sighs. “They're here, too.”

“I don't care what they say about us, but I don't want to play right into their hands, either.”

“Don't want to get caught in any... compromising positions?”

She laughs, despite her frustration. “Something like that.”

“Less than two weeks, Diane,” he says, turning serious. “Let's just see this through, and then... After the election, I'm asking you out on our first date.”

“I'd like that,” she grins, then goes quiet. She doesn't want to admit she has nothing left to say; she wants to keep him here all night. 

“Listen, I should probably go,” he says, making the difficult move for her. “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

“Okay. Me, too.”

“Two weeks,” he says again, an affirmation that comes out as more of a pained groan.

“Two weeks,” she sighs. She closes her eyes, whispering – it's still so new and strange to say it, something delicate, but magical. “I love you.”

Now that she has started, she isn't sure she'll ever tire of saying it. Or of hearing it.

“I love you,” he echoes, and she can almost hear the smile behind it, the lips she is aching to have pressed against hers again curling upward at the thought of her.

She ends the call, falling back against the pillows happily. Let them talk. Let them say whatever they want to say. She has heard everything she needs to know.


	36. Chapter 36

“All right.” Diane sits down at the conference table, leaning forward, smiling as she looks from Eli to Cary. “How bad is it?”

“It's bad, Diane,” Cary says grimly.

“Go on.”

“Howard Lyman, in his half-intelligible way, came out this morning calling for you to be investigated for misuse of campaign funds.”

“What, for the $500 bottles of champagne we drank on the private jet to our romantic weekends in Paris?” she laughs. “Please. I have nothing left to hide.”

“He's calling for you both to resign.”

“Good, let him blather on,” Diane waves her hand dismissively. “The more he does the more people will see that he's a lot more ridiculous and dangerous than two adults with a personal life.”

“I don't think you understand,” Cary says, becoming more insistent. “People _will_ vote for Lyman. Or they'll stay home, which is just as bad.”

Diane sighs, looking to Eli for backup.

Eli, who has been quietly enjoying their exchange, simply shrugs. “Cary's still grumpy. He's never lost an election before.”

“The first one's always hard,” Diane says, adopting an attitude of feigned pity.

This only exasperates Cary further. “How can you two joke about this?”

Diane leans closer, leveling with him. “Cary, when I went out there, I was ready to fight. But I was also ready to lose.”

“Well, sorry, I guess I'm not.”

Eli sighs, annoyed but understanding him. “Cary, sometimes I think you'd make a better candidate than a manager.”

Cary laughs finally, a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

Diane smiles to herself, sizing up the young man. If this doesn't work out, Eli is right – he would make an excellent candidate in his own right. But she isn't ready to concede this one just yet.

“Do we have any polling yet?” Diane asks, bringing them back to the subject, gesturing toward the thick report in front of Eli that he has so far kept to himself.

“It's too soon for firm numbers,” he cautions. “But people are angry and confused.”

“And early voting has slowed to a crawl,” Cary adds. “Everyone's waiting to make up their minds.”

“That means there's still time to change them,” Diane says.

“Or for Canning and Lee to drop another bombshell,” Cary counters.

“There's nothing for them to expose now. That's why I went out there – to take that power away from them.”

“Then they'll make something up!” Cary raises his voice again.

Eli raises a hand to silence him, tired of Cary's tantrums. “Diane, I hate to ask you this, and I really don't want to know...” He trails off, making a face of mock disgust. “But is there anything, _any_ impropriety that they could prove, that we should know about?”

“No,” Diane answers automatically.

“Please, think about it. If there is, we need to get in front of it.”

Diane has thought about it, honestly and at length, replaying their nights together, their phone calls and their messages, ever since the first photograph was leaked. And she has found nothing to reproach herself with. “We never discussed the details of our campaigns. Nothing more serious than making fun of your 1am emails, I mean.”

“Thanks.” 

“We certainly never conspired or coordinated in any way,” Diane adds seriously.

“Yes, but you can't prove that. Just the look of it is enough to make any reasonable person wonder.”

“And there is one thing,” Cary says slowly, more calmly than before.

“What?” Diane asks, her eyebrows raised, ready for another argument.

“You did have an agreement with him not to go negative.”

“And Howard Lyman was invited to sign on. He refused.”

“Yeah, but you clearly went easy on each other. It doesn't look good. The press is stuck on that.”

“Is it getting any traction with the public?”

Eli looks down at the polling data in front of him, flipping through the pages. “There are some mentions of it in our open-response questions, yes...”

“What else is in there?”

“Again, we'll have a better idea in the next couple days, but anecdotally people are all over the place, from 'I don't give a fuck' – nice – to 'I'm tired of the endless sex scandals' to 'I expect more from my elected officials'... Oh, here's a good one.”

He slides the report over to Cary and points at one response.

Cary laughs, reading the quote aloud. “'Hey, most candidates do it, they just don't usually do it with each other.'”

“Oh, dear God,” Diane rolls her eyes, suddenly feeling as if she has heard enough. She looks from one to the other again, a more pained smile on her face now. “I think I'm going to just stop listening to what anyone has to say once and for all.”

 

….....................

 

Diane is in bed by 11:00, settled in for the night, her phone within reach. Unable to actually see one another, they have resumed their nightly phone calls. It isn't quite enough – but it will do for now.

“Hey,” she says softly, answering his call on the first ring. “How was your day?”

“Awful,” he groans. “You?”

“Better now,” she smiles, sinking a little lower under the covers. 

“I was called a few new names today. On the upside, no one's calling me a pervert or a pedophile anymore.”

Diane laughs. “ _That's_ why everyone is so shocked. Your mystery woman isn't a nineteen-year-old at all.”

“I'm relieved to have that rumor disproved, at least. I never wanted a younger woman in my life.”

“No?” she teases him.

“They don't fight with me the way you do.”

“And where's the fun in that?”

“I'm actually a little surprised we kept it a secret as long as we did. I thought I was pretty obvious about the way I felt about you.”

“You _were_! You were flirting with me from the first time we talked.”

“Yeah,” he admits sheepishly. “And I got to you right from the start, too.”

“You did.” 

She shakes her head, thinking back. Things seemed so much simpler then, so harmless. She entertained a thousand justifications along the way before she found herself here and admitted the truth to herself – that she had been falling for him the whole time. 

“They're telling me I might really lose over this,” she changes the subject, closing her eyes, as if confessing her worst fear. To Eli and Cary, to the rest of the world, she will keep her head high. But she wants him to know how she feels.

“You knew that when you said what you said, didn't you?” he asks gently.

“I did. That's the choice I made.” She catches herself answering in the same tone of voice she might answer Eli or Cary, and softens. “I don't regret it, Kurt. It was the right choice.”

He thinks about this for what feels like a long time before he asks his next question – which she later wonders if he has been worried about all this time. “If you do lose, Diane, do you think you might someday... resent me?”

“No.” She answers without hesitation, absolutely certain of this herself, but perhaps too fast to be convincing to him.

“You sure about that?” he presses her. “What if it's not just this race, but your whole career?”

She can picture him nervously running a hand through his hair, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he waits for a response, and the image is utterly disarming.

“There's something I should make sure you understand, Kurt. I'm not going to resent you, because I didn't _choose_ you.”

“Oh,” he says, and she knows he still hasn't quite understood. 

“I decided I didn't _need_ to choose. I'm going to live my life, and to hell with all the reasons I shouldn't.”

She can almost hear him breathe a sigh of relief. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you might,” she grins.

“Well, if the worst happens, there's something sort of fun about being the gadfly, making trouble from outside the system.”

“One way or the other, I have a feeling we won't be done fighting with each other when this is all over.”

“I sure hope not.”

She turns off the light, lying down to face the side of the bed where he might be. “I'm tired, Kurt.” 

She means, and she knows he understands, that she is more than just sleepy – she is _tired_ of the dirty tactics, tired of listening to everyone else's opinion, tired of catering to the lowest common denominator. But she is sleepy, too, and she wishes more than anything she could fall asleep in his arms again.

“It's almost over,” he says, and she can hear in his voice how exhausted he is, too. She resolves that they will have to find some time to take care of one another, whatever happens in the end.

“Thank God.” She sighs, always hating to let him go. “I should try to sleep.”

“Me too. Another long day of being insulted and ignored tomorrow,” he grumbles. “Love you.”

You, too,” she smiles, grudgingly setting down the phone. 

She still wants to win, and she isn't about to give up. She still believes the people will be best served if she does win, whether they are able to look past this or not. But for the first time in a long time she does not expect to be personally devastated, if she does lose. She has so much else to look forward to now.


	37. Chapter 37

In the immediate aftermath, Howard Lyman surged in the polls and all three candidates found themselves locked in a virtual tie. As gutting as the numbers were to see in hard black and white, the share of undecided voters rose to double digits at the same time, gaining almost as many points as Lyman himself. Diane took this as a sign that voters were recoiling from the scandal, but looking for any reason not to vote for him. And she was prepared to offer dozens, if they were prepared to listen.

The damage already done, no scandal of any size can last forever without anything new to feed it. And for a few days, Diane found herself able to talk about the issues again. She accepted Eli's advice that she avoid direct questions and interactions with voters, and never mention Kurt by name in any of her speeches. Frustrating as it was the strategy worked, and she began to feel cautiously optimistic as she reclaimed a narrow lead.

That's when the trickle began. First another hotel security video, just to remind everyone. Then interviews with staff at other hotels who claimed to have witnessed their comings and goings. And bit by bit an examination of leaked hotel receipts, which provided a fairly comprehensive reconstruction of every night they had spent together. All amid Howard Lyman's continual, unintelligible ranting about family values and how they were somehow destroying them. None of this was remarkable – the secret was already out, and the implication that they had spent many nights together was clear – but it all served to keep the story in the news, and any discussion of policy firmly out. 

Diane tried to convince herself – and insisted more strongly to Eli and Cary – that this trickle of information is what Canning and Lee had always planned, and if they had had their way it would have played much worse for her. It would have been a long lead-up to a big reveal, keeping her scared and defensive in the meantime. Instead, she took control of the story and limited the damage. Eli grudgingly agreed, although with the added observation that a still better strategy would have been not sleeping with her opponent at all.

But the piling on of sleazy details and insinuations took its toll, and slowly Lyman began to creep upward again, pulling even with Diane and then a point or two ahead, but still within the margin of error. And now, two days before the election, the latest polls show that for the first time in the entire race he has firmly taken over the lead. 

Sitting in a late-night strategy session with Eli, Kalinda and Cary, takeout containers scattered all over the conference room table, Diane can't help feel they are grasping at straws. There are just not enough hours left, not enough time on the clock even to make a last desperate move. It means the world to her that they aren't giving up, but at this point she knows it is more out of loyalty than any honest expectation they can actually pull it off. 

“We can still win this by getting out the vote,” Eli says. “No Democratic voter stays home.”

Cary nods. “We're doubling down on shuttle drivers, and the phone banks will be blitzing occasional voters.”

“Good. And we still don't know which way the undecideds are going to break. We still have time to change their minds.”

“Line up an interview for me,” Diane says. “Let me make my closing arguments.”

Eli shakes his head. “Honestly, the less you say now, the better.”

“You could work out the terms, Eli. Put me on with someone you trust, and tell them Kurt is off-limits.”

“I don't know,” Cary says slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Everyone's talking about the fact that you won't talk about it.” 

“Well, what is there to say?” Diane throws up her hands in exasperation. 

“I don't know, but it makes it look like you're hiding something.”

“I've said what needs to be said. If anyone thinks they're going to get intimate details, or an apology or a word of regret, they'll be waiting a long time.”

“They're talking about you every day, though.”

“The whole point was that I didn't want to be always responding to their attacks, defending myself.”

“Look, we need something big, something to steal the news cycle back from this nonsense for good,” Eli says emphatically.

Diane sighs. “That's what we've been sitting here trying to do for...” – she glances down at her watch -- “four hours now...”

She trails off, realizing that the time has gotten away from her. It is well after 11:00, and she has missed his phone call for the first time in two weeks. As long and as hopeless as the days get, she always has that to look forward to at the end, and she has come to depend upon it; she has begun to see the appeal of having someone to confide in and seek comfort from. He will understand, of course – they're far past wondering what a missed call might mean now. But as Eli goes on, it continues to bother her. It's the one poor substitute for time spent together they have, and she has missed it. 

“Do you mind if we take a quick break?” Diane stands, not waiting for agreement. “Maybe while I'm gone you can work up a miracle.”

She walks quickly down the hall to her office, where she has left her phone. She just needs the lift of seeing the message he has probably left for her, sending him a flirtatious line back promising to make it up to him later.

She turns into her office and is surprised to see her assistant standing there, hovering over her desk – holding her phone in her hands.

“Samantha! What the hell are you doing?”

In her shock, the young woman fumbles and drops the phone, sending it clattering across the desk.

“Nothing, I was just – dropping off, um--” she gestures vaguely, not able to think quickly enough to lie. 

“Like hell you were.” Diane crosses the room and grabs the phone, finding it open to her conversation with Kurt, pages of messages back. “What do you want with this?”

“I'm sorry, it went off when I came in, I just happened to notice--”

“And you just happened to read all of these messages?” Diane folds her arms, dropping her voice to a dangerously low level. “Are you pleased? Well? Was it as titillating as you thought it would be?”

“I didn't want to, I just –“ she stammers, on the verge of tears. 

Diane narrows her eyes. “What do you mean you didn't want to?”

Eli pops his head in, starting to talk before he has really taken in the scene in front of him. “Diane, I would define a 'quick break' as – what the hell?”

Samantha turns away and hides her face.

“I caught her reading through my text messages,” she says icily, still glowering at the girl. 

“With McVeigh?”

“Yes. And I'm starting to suspect it wasn't just for her own entertainment.”

A little choked cry escapes Samantha's throat.

“Who put you up to it?” Diane asks, taking another step toward her.

“No one,” she whimpers miserably. 

“Did you already send some of this to them?”

Eli, quickly catching on, advances on her too. “Theft of electronic messages is a felony, just the same as theft of physical mail. Did you know that, when you agreed to do this?”

Samantha just cries harder.

“They left you to take the fall,” Eli says darkly. “They will just stand by as you go to jail.”

“No...” she sobs. 

“Kalinda!” Eli shouts, noticing her standing with Cary out in the main room. 

“Yeah?” she strides in, looking from Eli to Diane to the crying girl, putting the pieces together.

“Call the cops,” Eli barks. “She was going through Diane's phone, feeding information to Canning and Lee.”

“You're the one,” Kalinda says softly. “You tell them Diane's itinerary, that's how they knew which hotels she'd been at. What else did you give them?”

“What I really want to know is, _why_?” Diane asks.

Samantha shakes her head, as if unable to respond.

“No, pull yourself together, you at least owe me an answer to that!”

“I – I needed the money, I have student loans –“

Diane looks at her with an expression of disgust and pity. “There is never a good enough reason to get ahead by hurting others.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Eli and Kalinda exchange a look. Its exact significance has escaped her while she was focused on Samantha.

“Diane, you might as well go,” Eli says quietly.

“What, are you two handling me now?”

“There's no reason for you to stay here and deal with this. It's after midnight, and there's one full day of campaigning left. I want you in good shape tomorrow. We'll take it from here.”

Diane studies the young woman's face. Samantha looks back at her so pathetically, begging her with her eyes, as if she expects Diane to pardon her – as if it had never occurred to her there could be consequences to her actions. 

Diane nods. “Do whatever you think is best.”

She grabs her coat and purse and stalks out, furious and feeling she can count the people she can trust in the world on only one hand. But that thought reminds her that one of those people is Kurt, and it serves to calm her down as she breathes in the cold night air. She pulls out her phone again, scrolling back down to find his last message.

> _Hey, sorry I missed you – know you're busy. Goodnight. Love you_

And still, at the end of an especially long and hopeless day, there he is, making her smile after all.

She hails a cab, and by the time she settles into the back seat she feels every bit of her exhaustion. Almost unconsciously, she hears herself give the driver his address rather than her own. It's an insane thing to do, she realizes in the next moment, but she doesn't correct herself. 

She sighs, taking in the reality of what has just happened. She has no idea what else Samantha fed to Canning and Lee, but she is sure another bomb is about to drop, whether she succeeded in sending any of the messages or not. And no last-ditch effort on her part is going to bring her campaign back from that, even if her staff stays up all night brainstorming. There is one full day of campaigning left, and and no way she can see to save this now. 

She opens her messages again, scrolling back through what Samantha must have seen. She begins reading them to remind herself of the most damaging parts, wanting to at least be prepared for what may come. But she is quickly absorbed by the words themselves. Yes, they tell the story of arranged liaisons and distractions from campaign business. But they also tell the story of two people slowly falling in love.

She still cannot see why she should defend herself against that. 

The cab comes to a stop halfway up Kurt's long driveway, and Diane pulls herself away from the lovely memories. She thinks the driver must be the most discreet or the most ignorant man in Chicago, as he betrays no reaction to her or the destination, merely accepting her fare and tip with a yawn. He will probably be interviewed on the news tomorrow morning, the way her luck is going. But to hell with it. 

It doesn't even occur to her until the cab is gone and she is standing at his front door what she might do if she finds it locked. During the weekend she spent with him, they came and went without locking it once, and she is sure before this campaign he never had any reason to. But after all this, one personal scandal after another, reporters camped out on his street for days, surely he would have learned – 

She tries the handle, and the door opens. Thank God for Kurt McVeigh; he never changes for anything.

She slips in noiselessly, closing the door softly behind her. She smiles to herself, looking around. It has been weeks since she was here, but she remembers little moments they shared in every corner of the place. In a strange way, it feels like coming home. 

She drapes her coat and purse over a chair on her way to the stairs, carelessly stepping out of her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the floor. She tiptoes up the stairs into the darkness, feeling her way by memory.

The thought that she might startle him doesn't enter her mind until she approaches his bedroom. This was not very well-planned, she knows – but then, nothing about them ever was, and it has worked out well enough so far. She peeks into the room cautiously but finds him fast asleep; she can hear his light snoring. She stands there and watches him for a few moments, soothed just to be near him again. And aroused, too, or would be if she wasn't dead tired – admiring the way the faint light of the moon illuminates his bared shoulders and back. 

But she is painfully aware of her exhaustion again and the bed looks so inviting. She crosses the room quietly, gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed and easing herself down against the mattress. She doesn't bother to take off any more of her clothing, no longer having the energy to do anything but collapse beside him. 

Carefully, she wriggles closer, trying to at least get her legs under the covers without disturbing him. But as she reaches for the corner of the blanket she accidentally elbows him. She freezes, but she can tell his breathing has changed. 

“Are you really here?” he mumbles sleepily. 

“Shhh – don't wake up,” she whispers, snuggling back against him, taking the opportunity to gather more of the covers around her. 

“Okay.” He reaches over and drapes one arm around her, lazily nuzzling her neck before falling almost immediately back to sleep. 

She smiles, covering his hand with her own. Whatever comes of Samantha, whatever damage the next bomb inflicts, whatever the outcome of the election itself, she can't help but feel she has already won.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really not nsfw at all, but yknow...

When Diane wakes, she is momentarily confused by her surroundings. But the sun streaming through his skylight and the weight of his arm still around her quickly bring her back to the present. She smiles, making a little humming noise as she stretches and settles back against him again. He responds, squeezing her back lightly.

“Morning,” he says, the word muffled as he lowers his lips to her shoulder.

“Good morning.” She turns over to face him, greeting him with a kiss. “I hope you haven't been awake long.”

He shrugs. “Twenty minutes or so. Couldn't think of anything I'd rather do, so I stayed in bed.”

“If that's the way we ought to make decisions, I'll stay here all day,” she laughs, idly running her fingers down his bared arm, enjoying the sight of him as much now as last night, but beginning to feel more like doing something about it. 

“What made you come all the way out here?”

“Well, I missed your call, so this seemed like the easiest way to return it,” she jokes, letting her fingers slip beneath the covers, slowly tracing a line down his back. 

He trains a long, searching look on her, not easily distracted by her teasing. “What's wrong, Diane?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

He continues to look at her as if he doesn't quite believe her. She closes her eyes to it, leaning in to kiss him again, sweetly. 

She kisses him as if to say _we're here; forget about that now._ She doesn't want to hold anything back from him anymore, but she would like to get lost in him for just a little while.

“It _was_ a nice surprise,” he says softly, his lips moving against hers as he speaks. 

“You leave your door unlocked, you're liable to get all kinds of surprises,” she laughs, raising her eyebrows for a moment before kissing him again, more deeply this time. 

She wraps her arms around him and pulls him closer, realizing only now that his chest is pressed against hers how much more clothing she has on than he. Seeming to share the same thought, he fumbles for the zipper at the back of her dress, pulling the material free of her arms in an awkward tangle, both hating to break the kiss. It feels like ages since she last felt his hands on her skin, his touch as voltaic and surprising as the first time, but as soothing and accustomed as it has grown to be.

But it is still a first time, she realizes as they begin moving together, nothing in her mind clamping down on the thought like before; she realizes as the words form on her lips, nothing left to stop her from whispering: _I love you._ And she _feels_ the effect it has on him, the change in his rhythm, the brief hitch and enthusiastic revival. It's so thrilling to have that power over him – and feel herself just as undone by the same spell, turned back on her – that she can't stop saying it, the words flowing freely now, until he brings her to the point where no words come to mind at all.

And then, when her senses return from that one consuming need and release, when the words return, they are the first on her lips again. Between their slow, lazy kisses, they both whisper the same words of love, Kurt whose door was always unlocked, and Diane who opened hers only bit by bit. 

She really could stay all day in his bed, she thinks, but finally she pulls herself away with a regretful little groan. Like it or not, there is more work to be done before she can rest.

He watches her for a long time, patiently, intently, before he asks softly, “Are you going to tell me what this is really all about?”

She sits up halfway, propping her head up on her hand. “The election is tomorrow, Kurt. And he's really going to win.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do know that. He's ahead, there's no time left.”

“I've never known you to give up.”

“There's more.” She sighs heavily, gathering the covers around her as she sits up fully, her back against the headboard. “My assistant has been working for Canning and Lee. I caught her going through my phone last night, reading through our text messages.”

“Did she send them?”

“She might have. I didn't stay long enough to find out. I let Eli take over intimidating her while I made a dramatic exit.” She laughs, remembering the scene – it all seems so small and irrelevant now.

“I'm sorry, Diane,” he says, resting his hand on her thigh.

She shakes her head, looking straight ahead. “I'm less upset about it than I thought I would be. Maybe in a few weeks, a few months, it'll hit me. But I don't think so.”

He pushes himself up and sits across from her, forcing her to look at him, his face serious. “I keep thinking, someday it'll hit you that if I weren't in this race, you would have ran away with it.”

She reaches out and touches his arm, squeezing it lightly. “Never,” she says firmly, smiling back at him steadily. She leans forward to kiss him again, her hand around his neck, pulling him toward her.

He is smiling too, when she pulls back. “When this is over, let's go away.”

“You promised to ask me on a date, not to run away with you,” she smirks back at him.

“If Lyman really does win, I have a feeling we're going to need some time away.” He shrugs, lowering his face to kiss her neck. “I don't know. He might be so awful we'll never want to come back.”

Diane closes her eyes, enjoying his attentions, enjoying the thought of long lazy days, longer nights – someplace warm, she won't miss the Chicago winters... Then she pulls away suddenly, listening.

“I think that's my phone,” she says, scrambling out of bed and quickly slipping back into her dress to keep from freezing. 

“Got out of that one,” he laughs lightly, watching her. 

“No,” she says softly, walking back and leaning in to kiss him lightly on the lips. “No – let's keep talking about it.”

She pulls herself away with some difficulty, padding out of the room and downstairs in bare feet. She laughs to herself as she takes in how carelessly she threw her things about the night before – she was so dead tired then, and she feels so alive now. She may have been crazy to come, but she was also right.

She fishes her phone out of her purse and checks her voicemail. There is a message from Eli, all of four seconds long.

> _Where the hell are you? Turn on the TV, right now!_

She narrows her eyes, trying to make what sense she can out of so little information. He doesn't sound angry; he sounds almost... excited.

“Kurt?” she calls back up the stairs. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you really not have a television at all?”

He sighs as he comes down, tying his robe around his waist. “I really do not have a television at all.”

“That'll have to change,” she laughs distractedly, trying to bring up a news site on her phone.

“What's going on?” he asks, coming over to look over her shoulder.

“I'm not sure yet.”

She brings up a livestream feed for Channel 2, holding the phone between them. The news broadcast is playing the audio recording of a phone call, with the transcript scrolling at the side.

> _“Well? Do you have it?”_
> 
> _“Yes.”_
> 
> _“Why are you calling, then?”_
> 
> _“I want more.”_
> 
> _“Excuse me?”_
> 
> _“This is damaging information, and I risked a lot to get it – I want more.” ___

She looks at him, her eyes wide. The male voice on the recording is labeled as David Lee. The female voice is unidentified, but Diane recognizes that trembling tone instantly.

She whispers, “That's Samantha, my assistant!”

> _“How much?”_
> 
> _“Another hundred grand.”_
> 
> _[long pause]_
> 
> _“Fine. You'll get your money.”_

“Is this real?” Kurt asks.

“After I left, Eli must have turned her – wait, shh,” she stops, listening again as the anchor comes back on.

> _That again is an audio recording submitted to Channel Two anonymously late last night, purportedly showing Howard Lyman's campaign manager soliciting the private text messages of rival Democratic candidate Diane Lockhart in exchange for a large payoff. The Lyman campaign has declined repeated requests for comment, and our continuing investigation is underway._

“Oh my god,” Diane exclaims, setting down the phone and throwing her arms around his neck in her excitement and relief.

He laughs into her hair, happy to see her so happy. “Maybe all hope isn't lost, after all.”

She laughs, too, feeling almost giddy. “Well, whatever happens, it's nice to see their names dragged through the mud for a change.”

“It's about time,” he agrees.

He is smiling, but she senses that he isn't as unreservedly happy as she is. “What is it?”

“No, no.” He waves it off, as if it's nothing. “You almost had me believing they had already won.”

“You worry about how I'll feel if I lose, you worry about how I'll feel if I win,” she observes, smiling at him knowingly. It pains her to see that hesitation still there, but she knows she has given him so many reasons to doubt. “I keep trying to tell you, nothing's going to change, no matter what happens.”

“Well, a lot _is_ going to change.”

“And we'll figure it out. Because you're right. I don't give up – on anything,” she looks at him meaningfully, then leans in to kiss him. She kisses him until she can feel him return the smile against her lips; she kisses him until she is sure he believes it, and then she kisses him more.


	39. Chapter 39

At the end of a long campaign – and they _always_ feel long, but none nearly so long as this one – the act of voting is something Diane particularly relishes. She feels a sense of pride, seeing the long line of people waiting to cast their ballots. Whether they are here to vote for her or for either of her opponents, these are the people who have chosen to care, who have chosen to participate, and it reaffirms the reasons why she is here herself. 

And no matter how many times she has been through it, there is nothing like seeing her own name there in black and white, casting a ballot for herself. It is not quite the same now that it is all touch-screen machines and little paper receipts, but it is still an eminently satisfying moment. It is also the last moment over which she has any control. 

She finds Eli waiting in the hall for her after she finishes, and they exchange nervous smiles. 

“You all right?” he asks, looking far from fine himself. 

She nods, then lets out a long breath. “Now we wait.”

As they step outside, a throng of reporters are waiting in ambush, shoving microphones in her face and yelling out questions at her. Without seeing his face she can tell Eli is anxious as they walk by, paranoid she will say something in the heat of the moment. There is a long day ahead yet, and one wrong word looped on repeat on the morning news could bring the whole fragile thing crashing down. But she has no more desire to talk to any of them than he does. She waves and smiles as they pass, as if oblivious to the fact that they want anything more from her.

_“Do you think you can still win this, Ms Lockhart?”_  
“What do you have to say about the allegations against the Lyman campaign?”  
“Have you been seeing Kurt McVeigh?”  
“What role would McVeigh play in your administration, if you win?”  
“What are your plans if you lose today?”  
“Is there any real difference between what Lyman did and what you did?” 

At this last question, Diane hesitates, and Eli can feel it even before she has stopped walking, tugging on her arm inconspicuously to continue. But she thinks it over and finds she cannot resist, smiling thinly as she turns back to the leering young man who asked it.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I asked, is there any real difference between the Lyman campaign's tactics and your sexual impropriety? Corruption is corruption.”

Diane's eyes flash with anger, but she manages to keep her voice low and steady as she replies, other reporters quickly huddling around them. 

“Today is the day the voters get to decide that. Perhaps they will decide there is no real difference, in which case they'll have to look to other, more substantive factors to make their choice. But when voters compare a conspiracy to steal an election to two people who happened to meet and fall in love, I have a feeling that somehow, yes, they will be able to see a clear difference.”

She turns on her heel and stalks away, trying as hard as she can to subdue the smug smile tugging at the corners of her mouth now. It is the first time she has spoken out about it, after months of dealing with it, and damn it feels good.

Eli scowls, trying less hard to hide it, wanting nothing else but to get her away from anyone with a camera. He opens the door to the waiting car, letting her in first, and slamming the door behind him as he follows.

“I'm going to lock you in a room for the rest of the day,” he mutters.

She laughs, feeling a huge weight has been lifted now. “I thought it went well.”

“Could have gone worse,” he admits, still not happy about it. “But I don't want to take any chances today.”

“That's it,” she says quietly, smiling to herself as she looks out the window. “I've said everything I have to say.”

 

…...........................

 

True to his word, Eli rounds up the senior campaign staff in a luxury hotel suite, sees that Diane's every need is taken care of, and forbids her from leaving the room. Half a dozen televisions have been brought in, each tuned to a different network to monitor the news coverage throughout the day. A buffet has been laid out with everything she could possibly want, restocked every two hours. Every time Eli's phone rings he walks off to take it in private, then returns claiming to know nothing. By early afternoon, it is enough to drive her insane.

Diane sighs, moving away from the televisions to sit next to Cary, hard at work on his laptop and looking in need of a distraction. She knows he is putting the finishing touches on her acceptance speech – or her concession speech. More truthfully, she wants to be distracted from that knowledge.

“Are you writing poetry there?”

“I'm trying,” he laughs.

She cocks her head to one side, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. “I'm wondering when would be the polite time to get into those bottles of wine.”

“Hey, no one here is going to judge.”

She turns back to him, becoming serious for a moment, smiling at him steadily. “And thank you for that.”

“For what?” he asks, honestly confused.

“For never abandoning me. And for not judging me – after you had some time to think it over.”

“I was kind of an ass at first,” he admits sheepishly.

She shrugs. “So was Eli. So was the whole state of Illinois.”

“Well, we got over it.”

“Hopefully enough of you did,” she laughs ruefully. “If I win tonight, Cary, I'm not going to offer you a position on my staff.”

His eyes go a little wide at her sudden bluntness. “Wow.”

She sizes him up for a moment, nodding. “Eli will stay with me. But you're ready to go off on your own. Run a campaign, or run for office. You will have my full support whatever you do, but it's time.”

Cary is stunned, too flustered to think of a comeback for a moment.

“Excuse me, don't go giving my best deputy delusions of grandeur,” Eli swoops in, offering her a glass of wine.

“I guess that answers my question,” Diane laughs, accepting it gratefully. “I couldn't listen to the speculation any longer. Please tell me you know _something_ now.”

“I almost always do. But this is the absolute strangest race I have ever had the misfortune of being a part of,” he grumbles, not really meaning it. “We have no polling back on this, it broke too late in the game to have any idea how it's playing with the voters. It will hurt Lyman, absolutely. I can't possibly predict how much it will help you.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “I want to win, but I don't want to win because of _this_.”

“A win is a win, Diane.”

“It's a dirty win, and you know it. That follows me into office.”

Eli shakes his head, laughing lightly but not unkindly. He looks at her with as close to an expression of affection as she has ever seen on him. “After all this time, you still want to win on your principles.”

“Yes,” she says simply and firmly. 

“I guess that's why people love you,” Cary chimes in. 

“They do, Diane. I have no idea what's going to happen tonight, but that I do know.”

“Let's hope that's enough,” Diane smiles, grateful to them both. 

Eli's phone rings and he wanders off abruptly to take the call in private again, and she decides to leave Cary to his work. She wanders over to a quiet corner by a window, pulling her own phone from her pocket. She starts to text Kurt, indulging herself. They had agreed to focus on their campaigns, just for one last day. But she has never been able to rest when the work is done, always looking ahead to the future.

> _How are you holding up?_

As she waits for his response, she looks down at the city below. No matter how battered and bruised she emerges from this election, in the end she has not lost a bit of her love for the state or the people within it, and she is no less sure that she can change their lives for the better. It is true that scandal will follow her to Springfield if she does win, but whatever happens, she is proud of the race she has run, and grateful to have gained more than she lost.

A minute later, her phone vibrates with his reply.

> _I'm tempted to crawl into bed until the polls close._

She smiles mischievously.

>   
> _I'm tempted to join you._
> 
> _Wish you could._  
>  _Hard to believe this is almost over._
> 
> _Yes – but I'm excited about what's next._
> 
> _Me too._  
> 

She closes her eyes, smiling. She thinks, _she hopes_ , he finally believes they can make this work. She still doesn't know how, exactly, but they will. If they both lose, she really would run away with him, and she would enjoy doing nothing as long as she can, then begin planning other ways to change the world. But she is starting to feel the energy – or perhaps it is just the wine – starting to have a hard time imagining anything but victory. It will be awkward, being seen with him around town; the idea of his ever spending the night in the executive mansion seems insane. Every time she takes a moderate position, strikes a deal with conservatives, there will be questions about his influence. It will not be easy.

But she feels the energy, feels as if somehow, after everything she should have learned, it all could just fall into place. Not neatly, perhaps – but into some kind of organic order just the same.

She pockets her phone again and drains her wine glass. She doesn't know how, but she will do it just as she has always done everything. By trusting herself, and simply doing it.


	40. Chapter 40

> _It's 7PM and across the state of Illinois polls are closing and the votes are beginning to be tallied. Too soon to say whether this will be an early night or last into the morning hours to call the Governor's race; with late-breaking developments, no polls going into Election Day are a reliable indicator of voter sentiment today._

Feeling slightly queasy, Diane turns away from the television, pacing in the other direction. It is over now, and all she can do is wait for the final judgment to come. In the meantime, any more speculation is as torturous as it is pointless.

“Is she okay?” Cary mutters to Eli, not too quiet for her to hear.

“She's fine, she just needs to go to her quiet place,” Eli replies in his full voice, not caring if she hears or not.

Diane laughs lightly to herself; he knows her so well. It's usually about this time she starts to become morose about the campaign ending, even as another part of her looks anticipates getting back to the real work of serving the people. But this time, with no reservations and no matter the outcome, she is ready for it simply to be _done_. Yes, to get back to work, one way or the other. But she has more than that to look forward to now...

A cheer rises throughout the room in reaction to whatever has just happened on the news.

“We have the early lead!” Eli calls out, triumphant.

“Eli, all they have back so far is Cook County,” Cary scoffs. “Of course we're winning Cook County.”

“It's a good omen, oh ye of little faith!”

Diane tries to block them out as they continue arguing, turning to look out the window. She wishes she were down there, anonymous and free, wandering the city streets. Anywhere but here in this jail cell of a hotel room Eli has locked her up in for six hours and counting now. She pulls out her cell phone again, reaching out to the only person in the world who quite knows how she feels.

> _I'm thinking about that first time we escaped together and wandered around Springfield._

He texts back almost immediately:

> _Want to do it again?_

Diane bites her lip, half-considering it for a moment. She could slip away while everyone's eyes were glued to the television, somehow dodge the reporters who are following her every move, and take the chance that the winner is not announced before she can sneak back in. She closes her eyes, grinning. It is insane, of course, but it is a relief just to imagine it.

>   
> _Soon. You owe me a date, remember?_
> 
> _How could I forget?_  
> 

She pockets her phone again, the smile still on her face, but fading. A few words from him are all she needs to recharge, but they can't change the reality of this agonizing waiting. Perhaps not much longer at all, perhaps well into the middle of the night. Perhaps through weeks of recounts and legal battles... she hadn't even considered that possibility until just now. Eli has, surely, he must have a whole battle plan mapped out he has kept to himself, but her stomach lurches at the very thought of it. She isn't up for it. If it comes to that, she thinks she really will hop a flight to Costa Rica with him and hide until it's all settled...

To distract herself from her distraction, she retraces her steps, coming to stand beside Eli and Cary again.

“What is it now?” she asks.

Eli waves his hand dismissively. “The early numbers don't really mean anything, Diane.”

Cary's eyes go wide in mock indignation. “What did you _just_ say about omens?”

“Omens are bunk.”

Cary shakes his head, turning to Diane as if to level with her. “Lyman and McVeigh have both surged ahead of you in vote count, but there's still less than 20% of precincts reporting, and this latest round was all deep red counties – Edwards, Ford, Hancock.”

Diane nods. She knows better than to let that get to her. The last Democratic candidate for governor had received less than 12% of the vote in Edwards county last cycle, and she hadn't even bothered stopping there since June. There is no surprise in that.

Still it kills her to glance at the screen and see in bold type:  
Lockhart 29%  
Lyman 35%  
McVeigh 36%

“Turnout was heavy in our strongest counties, that's great for us,” Cary goes on, trying to pull her attention back from the news. “We were afraid people would stay home. That didn't happen.”

“People are riled up, Diane,” Eli adds. “That's a good sign.”

She nods silently again. She knows they are right about this, too, but it doesn't make her feel much better. It's just as true that high turnout means something else – they're in for a long night.

More waiting.

 

….............

 

By 11:00, Diane has nervously run her hands through her hair so many times she can feel her stylist shooting daggers at her from across the room. But try as she might, she finds she cannot turn away now. As more urban precincts reported she pulled ahead again, and she and Lyman have been separated by a few thousand votes for ages now, one pulling ahead of the other each time the updated total is announced.

“We know one thing for sure,” Cary says, not looking up from some forecasting model he is running on his laptop.

Eli nods, not needing to see it to know. “Yeah. McVeigh's dead.”

Diane understands instantly that they are speaking in the political sense, but she feels as instantly sick at the sound of it as if she had just heard he was in a fatal car accident.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“With over 60% reporting, knowing what's still out there...” Cary shrugs. “Yeah. It's almost impossible for him to come back now.”

“Diane --” Eli begins, about to caution her. 

But she cuts him off. “No, that's good. One down.”

She means that, as his opponent. But as she turns away, taking out her cell phone again, she indulges her feelings as his...

 _What_ exactly? His girlfriend? She stifles a laugh, shaking her head. Governor-Elect Diane Lockhart and Her Secessionist Boyfriend... she could get used to seeing that headline.

>   
> _How are you doing?_
> 
> _You did the math too, huh?_  
> 

She can imagine his wry smile, his steady voice if he were saying the words to her now, barely disguising his very real upset at this outcome. As little as she wanted him to win herself, a dream of his is dead now, and her heart breaks for him. 

>   
> _I'm sorry, Kurt._
> 
> _I think I'm just relieved this is over._  
> 

She knows that is not entirely true, but she understands him. There aren't any words that can quite express what he is feeling, and she wishes she could pull him toward her now, kissing him until he loses the urge to say anything at all. 

Smirking, she plants the seed in his mind, hoping to give him something to look forward to:

>   
> _I'll make it up to you later._
> 
> _Oh I'm sure you will._  
> 

Diane doesn't even try to erase the devilish smile on her lips, striding back over to them, feeling a surge of confidence suddenly. “Where are we at?”

“You didn't miss anything.”

“It's too late in the night for this to be so close.”

“Still a lot of precincts left out in Putnam, Alexander, Fulton,” Eli ticks them off on his fingers, “you're way ahead in all three – and you're going to take back Will County --”

Distractedly, Cary scrolls through his model. “Actually, Diane, if your lead in those counties holds, there's no possible way --”

Before he can finish his sentence, the news anchor catches her ear.

> _At this hour, we are ready to call the race for Governor of Illinois. With 86% of precincts reporting, Diane Lockhart--_

And as a graphic of her face goes up on the screen superimposed with a giant blue checkmark, she can't hear another word for all the cheering in the room, then a moment later can't see a thing as first Eli and Cary, then all of the staff surround her from all sides in a crushing embrace.

“Oh my God, I don't believe it,” she breathes.

“Believe it!” Eli grins back at her, shaking her shoulders and then hugging her again.

She doesn't quite believe it and she won't fully for some time to come, but elated, reeling, she hugs and thanks each one of them in turn, Through this long and grueling campaign, after countless betrayals, she wouldn't have made it without their loyalty and basic goodness. Theirs – and that of the majority of the people she serves. She feels a swell of pride at that: no amount of dirty tricks could sway their opinion in the end. 

“Hey, Diane,” Cary steps in, holding out a phone. “Call for you.”

“Who is it?”

He struggles to contain his laughter. “Howard Lyman.”

Diane raises her eyebrows in equal amusement – this should be interesting.

“Hello?”

There is silence on the other end.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Eh? Huh? Oh, right, hey uh, Diane, this is Howard!” he practically shouts at her, sounding as if he has just woken up from a nap.

“How are you, Howard?”

“Well, you know, I've had better days. I'm calling to say good job and, you know, no hard feelings.”

“ _Really?_ ” she cannot keep the sarcasm from her voice, but she knows he is unlikely to pick up on it. “Honestly Howard, I would have expected you to challenge it in court.”

“Eh. That's what my guys said. But I'm tired, I think we should call it a day. Don't you?”

“It has certainly been a long race.”

“Yeah. Politics, eh?”

She laughs to herself at the absurdity of it all. Months of engineered scandals, lies, cheating, all put down to politics. “Yeah, Howard. Politics.”

She shakes her head, about to gleefully recount the bizarre conversation to Eli and Cary when her own phone rings in her pocket. She hands the other phone back to Cary and holds up a finger to say _one minute_. 

She glances at the screen before answering and sees it's Kurt, putting in his own customary call to concede the race. His may be equally unorthodox, but much more welcome. 

“Hey,” she greets him softly, turning her back to the room.

“Congratulations,” he says, then adds in a low voice, “ _Governor Lockhart._ ”

“Oh, I do like the sound of that. Especially when you say it,” she says flirtatiously, then turns serious. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says with a hard sigh that makes it clear he isn't, not entirely. “I think I have more fun fighting than leading anyway, and you're a lot more fun to fight with than Lyman.”

“I should hope so,” she laughs.

“It's just too bad we won't be able to run away together after all.”

“Consider it postponed, not cancelled,” she says resolutely.

“You think you'll still want me around in four years?”

“ _Eight_ ,” she corrects him, feeling as if she could conquer the world now, “and yes, I'll still want you around.”

Eli steps in front of her, motioning, wanting her to get back to business. She scowls at him, turning away again.

“Listen Kurt, I have to go but – if you don't mind a late night, would you like to come over later?”

“Call me when you're done. I don't mind waiting.”

She ends the call, smiling to herself. He never has minded waiting – and thank God for that.

There will be endless interviews, speeches and parties before they can be alone together, a long night still ahead before she can rest, and then rest only for a moment before the new work begins. But now, she feels like she can keep going forever. As far off course as she was pushed, she ended up exactly where she had planned, the prize all the sweeter for what she discovered along the way.


	41. Chapter 41

Diane glances down at her watch as she gets out of the cab, scowling, seeing she is a full fifteen minutes late and counting. She is running from a meeting with Naomi Woodard, her prospective appointee to head the Department of Human Rights, losing track of time as she discussed her shared vision for the office. But as badly as she feels to be late for their first real date of all things, she realizes this is the way things are likely to be now. She just hopes Kurt understands that. 

When she enters the restaurant, she doesn't need to give her name to the maitre'd or mention who she is meeting. He already knows, of course, but he betrays no sign of judgment one way or the other as he indicates Kurt at an empty table. She thanks him with a curt little nod. She can imagine what he is thinking, what everyone is thinking as they notice and pretend not to notice her walk in. Let them think what they want, she tells herself; their small minds aren't going to stop her from doing what she wants to do.

As soon as Kurt catches sight of her, she forgets about them altogether. For a moment, there is no one in that crowded restaurant for the two of them but each other. She watches as his expression changes from slightly worried to plainly stunned, and not in a million years could she grow tired of seeing his handsome face look at her that way.

“Sorry,” she says when she reaches him, not really meaning it. She is not sorry at all if arriving late provokes that sort of reaction. She lets her fingertips graze his lightly before she takes her seat across the table from him, and she sees him color as he shakes his head, at a loss for words. 

He is nervous, she realizes, as if they haven't been doing this for a long time. But it is different now, out of hotel rooms and sneaking in and out of one another's places, no longer resorting to stolen glances and coded phrases in public. And it is not only that they are on display – although she does still feel keenly all eyes half on them – but that they can finally just _be_ together.

He lets out a long breath. “So. Here we are.”

“Here we are,” she grins back at him.

He manages a small smile in return, but grumbles, “I want to stand up and tell everyone to mind their own damn business.”

She laughs, waving it away. “Ignore them.”

“That's pretty hard to do.”

“Of course, people are curious. We are a pretty odd couple, you know,” she teases him, but his scowl only deepens. She leans forward, her arms crossed on the table, smiling devilishly. “Look at it this way. A vote for me was sort of a vote for us.”

He can't help but laugh at that. “Yeah, that makes me feel better about everything.”

She senses his mood has genuinely lifted, but she also suspects there is something behind what he has just said. They haven't talked about it much since the night of the election – they've been busy, and exhausted, and entirely wrapped up in one another.

Before she can take the opportunity to ask, the waiter comes by, interrupting them with a recitation of the daily specials. They never fail to choose the least welcome moment, Diane thinks to herself, exchanging a glance with Kurt that shows he is thinking the same thing. Like everyone else, the waiter pretends he doesn't know them from any two strangers off the street, but his lingering smiles betray him. He offers to come back, but Kurt has had plenty of time to study the menu, and Diane already knows it well, and they place their order quickly.

“So,” she says with some caution, leaning forward again. She has lost the natural lead-in to this conversation, but she is determined not to let it pass by. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he replies, in his usual terse, unassuming way.

“I mean, since the election.”

“You mean, am I angry, brokenhearted, resentful?” he suggests with a lopsided smile.

“Yes, I suppose that's what I'm asking,” she persists.

But the waiter returns, pleased at his own efficiency, breaking the flow of their conversation again. He pours a glass of wine for her, leaving the bottle behind, then a beer for him. The whole display seems to go on forever, neither of them speaking, their eyes darting away as soon as they make contact.

When the waiter leaves, she asks again. “How are you doing, really?”

Kurt shrugs. “I'm fine, honestly. In the end, I'm not sure I even wanted it anymore.”

She isn't sure she quite believes him. “How can you say that?”

“I got into this race to say something, Diane, but not very long after that, people stopped listening.”

She nods slowly. She can certainly understand what he means about that.

“I think I cared a lot more about that than I ever cared about winning. In fact, if it hadn't been for you, I probably...” He trails off, stopping himself there.

“What?” she prompts him, raising her eyebrows.

He laughs sheepishly, looking down into his drink. “I probably would have dropped out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, maybe. There were times when it felt so useless the only thing I looked forward to was arguing with you.” He looks suddenly embarrassed, and shifts the line of conversation. “Anyway, you're a lot better at handling the bullshit that comes along with politics. I don't think I ever could.”

She gazes at him, amused and admiring. “You're an idealist, in your own crackpot way.”

“I guess so,” he laughs. “The only thing that really bothers me now is that I'll be remembered as a joke. I'm just the new Joe the Plumber.”

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” She reaches out and grabs his wrist in a comforting gesture, instinctively – as soon as she's done it, she feels the eyes on her again, those nearby noticing the display of affection. But she ignores it, letting her hand rest there. “People have a short memory, anyway. A lot of it depends on what you do next.”

“I've been thinking about that. I don't think elected office was the right fit for me, but I do need to make a difference somehow.”

“Will you go back to making your homespun political infomercials?” she teases him.

“I might,” he says, taking her comment in stride. “I want to do more than that, but I don't want to make your life more difficult, either.”

She is shocked that he would say that, but before she can protest, the waiter returns with their food, silencing them again as he busies himself arranging the plates, making small talk neither of them are interested in hearing. 

Once he has gone again, Diane lets Kurt enjoy a bite of his food first, but she doesn't let him off the hook. She takes a sip of her wine, then brings the conversation right back to where they left off. “I don't think you should make any decisions about your future because of me, Kurt.”

He looks stung by this and doesn't respond immediately, and it takes her a few moments to understand why. She immediately regrets her choice of words when it finally dawns on her. 

He finally says, plainly, looking her square in the eye, “My future has a lot to do with you. So yes, you are a factor in that decision.”

His words – and how certainly he says them – both thrill and terrify her, and she can feel her pulse quicken as she realizes what he has just said, and that she feels exactly the same way.

“Well, that's all right, then,” she smiles back at him, and she feels certain it is a giddy, goofy grin she is powerless to control. It is the sort of reaction he sometimes provokes with an unexpectedly disarming comment like that, and she would bury it in a kiss if they were alone. But let him see it; let them all see it, for that matter. She is a woman having dinner with the man she loves, beginning to plan a future together – and for a moment, it feels exactly as simple as that. 

“What about you?” he asks, still smiling himself, clearly pleased and reassured by her response. “What's your first order of business?”

“Well, first I need to finalize my executive cabinet. That's why I was late, I was talking to Naomi Woodard for Department of Human Rights--”

“Naomi Woodard?” He repeats the name incredulously. “She's the most left-wing, liberal, intrusive, anti-business--”

She smiles back at him, ignoring his outburst. “This is going to be fun, isn't it?”

“Fun. That's one word for it,” he grumbles, but laughs. 

They will probably pick a fight with each other every day for the rest of their lives, and neither would have it any other way. 

“Excuse me--”

Diane turns reluctantly away from him, expecting to see their waiter interrupting at yet another inopportune moment, but sees instead another strange man, his clothes not quite up to the standard of the restaurant, a camera in his hand.

Kurt is on his feet before she has quite realized what is happening.

“Could I get just one picture--” he persists, and Diane sees he is just a kid, really, a determined and completely tactless kid, a tabloid reporter in all likelihood. The major news outlets have accepted their relationship and moved on, but surely there is still an appetite for a sleazy story somewhere. Diane is disturbed, but not surprised.

“Can you leave us in peace for one damn night?” Kurt demands quietly but angrily, standing between the young man and Diane, who is standing now, too, gesturing for the maître d'. 

“Hey, I just want one picture, you two make such a nice couple,” the kid tries to joke, his hands up in the air in a gesture of innocence.

The maître d' strides over quickly, coolly inserting himself between the two men. “Excuse me, sir, but we do not allow members of the press to disturb our guests in this restaurant.” 

“I'm paying for my dinner here same as anyone, I just asked for a photo--”

“I will have to ask you to leave, and if you do not comply, I will call the police.”

If the whole restaurant wasn't watching them before, they certainly are now, and making no effort to hide it. A few patrons have begun to crowd around them, trying to get a better view. Diane is mortified, casting an apologetic look at Kurt, who only looks furious and half-ready to throw a punch. Disgusted by the whole scene as she is, some base part of her would love to see him do it.

“Hey, low-life,” a man in the crowd speaks up. “Leave them alone.”

“Yeah, no one wants to read that trash,” a woman calls out from the other direction.

“All right, all right, I'm going,” the kid says, backing away.

“Not so fast,” Kurt says, following him. “Give me your film.”

The kid laughs. “It's a digital camera, man.”

“Then erase it all, and show me.”

He balks, but seeing there is no one on his side, gives in and shows Kurt the display as he deletes the pictures he took from a distance before they noticed him. 

The maître d' has a waiter escort the young man out, and the onlookers go back to their own tables, the room buzzing with conversation Diane presumes is about them. But this time she is heartened by the discretion and support of the crowd, certain the whispers are against the press now, and not them.

“Please accept my most sincere apologies,” the maître d' says, looking horrified by what has just happened.

“It's all right,” Diane smiles thinly. “You couldn't have known.”

“Rest assured he will not be allowed here again. I hope you will feel comfortable and welcome dining here in the future.”

Diane reaches out and squeezes Kurt's hand briefly before returning to her seat, determined not to let this ruin their night.

He hesitates, still shook up by the whole scene. “Do you want to go?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head resolutely. “Do you?”

He softens, sitting down across from her again. “No.”

“Good,” she smiles warmly. “Because in spite of that, I think this is a wonderful first date.”

“It'll be memorable, anyway,” he says ruefully.

“Yes, but not because of him,” she smiles back at him steadily. “Because of you.”

They fall back into easy conversation for the rest of their dinner, at first very consciously putting it behind them, but soon forgetting it altogether. They so easily leave it all behind when they are together, and it occurs to Diane later – later, when it is quiet, after the dessert and almost too much wine, after the cold walk back to her apartment warmed by each other, after the lazy slow kisses that turn to lovemaking and back to lazy slow kisses again – later, watching him sleep there in her bed, it occurs to her that that is the key: they can always easily leave it behind. 

He hates Chicago and he won't like Springfield any better, but he will walk the streets beside her happily. She doesn't care for the country, but she can see the charm of it through his eyes. They disagree with each other's politics, and their politics are central to who they are. But she feels certain that none of that matters as long as they can look at their differences head-on, and simply set them aside. With all they have been through, they have always been able to do that, and she knows now they always will. 

_Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a minute to thank everybody who has read along and encouraged me while I was writing this story. It started as a bit of a joke and a NaNoWriMo project, but it grew into something I'm kind of proud of, and your support has been a big reason for that. This is a lovely ship and you are equally lovely shippers, and it has been my absolute pleasure to write for you guys. Every comment, "kudo," "like," and view has meant so much to me. And if you should come across this long after I have finished writing, I thank you, too. Diane and Kurt are just about the finest example I have ever seen of a mature, healthy, playful, fun, sexy relationship, in canon and any au I can think of -- I hope you feel I have done them justice. (Haha, Justice! ;) Thank you so much for reading. xoxoxo, Lauren


End file.
